Churchill’s Hour

Churchill’s Hour Michael Dobbs The combination of Michael Dobbs’ excellent writing skills and historical passion, and the legendary character of Winston Churchill, have provided two triumphantly successful books in WINSTON’S WAR and NEVER SURRENDER.In 1941, the war appears to be going badly on many fronts. Churchill is the confirmed leader and so his domestic political struggles are slightly lessened, but battered, bloody and almost bankrupt, Britain limps on. Churchill knows his country cannot win the war alone.An alliance with America is paramount, and Churchill is determined to develop and use a friendship with Averall Harriman, American Ambassador to Britain, and personal friend of President Franklin Roosevelt. But his son's wife exploits this first. Pamela Churchill's passionate affair, conducted under her father-in-law's roof, presents Churchill with the appalling dilemma between saving his country, and allowing his son Randolph to be cuckolded.With no British battlefield successes, and with a jubilant Germany controlling Europe, 1941 was a bleak year. America continued resolute against fighting, but by the year’s close Pearl Harbour had forced America into the war. Why had the Japanese been persuaded to attack American targets? And how were the rumours of the attack prevented from reaching American ears?Decisions of love and war are often matters of perception. And so it was in this case.This is an extraordinary novel of a man at bay, a nation facing disaster, and the political skills, human dilemmas and brilliant leadership that saved the day. CHURCHILL’S HOUR MICHAEL DOBBS ‘One of the most misleading factors in history is the practice of historians to build a story exclusively out of the records which have come down to them.’ WINSTON CHURCHILL TO WILL. TO MIKEY. TO ALEX. TO HARRY. MY FOUR MUSKETEERS. ‘We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender. ‘And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the new world, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.’ WINSTON CHURCHILL, June 1940 ‘I have said this before, but I shall say it again and again and again. Your boys are not going to be sent into any foreign wars.’ FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT, October 1940 Table of Contents Cover Page (#u1828c2b3-6fd9-5b7b-b5ee-8850526fb162) Title Page (#u77e33d93-3042-5cab-9603-e9cf58bb6f22) Dedication (#u5004b957-dee4-57ba-82e4-15a579b559b4) Epigraph (#u1ac85061-8819-517b-a8ab-12e18301077e) ONE (#u562463cb-a238-54a2-ac5d-f1e89ba20ef0) TWO (#u73018edc-4b42-5e3a-9abe-0cd629683916) THREE (#u3f029cc1-e804-580f-81d6-e013464301d9) FOUR (#u6a6539eb-e97b-5a55-b599-e43d9783ec2e) FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) SIX (#litres_trial_promo) SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) NINE (#litres_trial_promo) TEN (#litres_trial_promo) ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) ONE (#ulink_a98241c3-b7f9-520a-9a60-b395ca3a347c) Christmas Day, 1940. Winston Churchill sat propped up against the pillows of his bed. The room was cold, a sullen December sky rattling at the mullioned window, but the old man didn’t complain. The foul weather had kept the bombers at bay last night. Peace on earth, at least until tomorrow. A servant entered the room carrying a pair of freshly ironed trousers on one arm and a silver tray on the other. Frank Sawyers was short, hairless, with piercing blue eyes and two missing teeth. He was no more than forty years in age yet his attitude was timeless. ‘Did you knock?’ Churchill’s brow was split by a crease of irritation. ‘As always, zur,’ Sawyers said, a trifle wearily and with a pronounced lisp and Cumbrian burr. ‘And what’s that disgusting green stuff?’ The Prime Minister took off his reading glasses and used them to indicate the jar on the silver tray. ‘No medicine, do you hear me? I’ll have none of your quackery. I’m not ill.’ ‘Chutney. Home-made. By way of me Christmas present to yer, like. With season’s greetings.’ Churchill stared at the jar, his blue eyes alert as though suspecting some plot. Sawyers had a knack of producing exotic and unexpected gifts, even through the constraints of wartime, and Churchill knew that no matter how alarming the sour green pickle might appear, it would taste delicious. He didn’t have the knack himself; he’d given only books for presents, and mostly his own books at that. As he approached the bed, the servant glared at Nelson, the patch-eyed cat who lay sprawled across the eiderdown at Churchill’s feet. Nelson possessed a foul temper that had grown ever more unreliable from spending too many nights in Downing Street during the air raids, and Sawyers’ loathing for the cat had grown with the number of scratch marks left on the back of his hands. He gave the beast a wide berth as he placed the tray on the bedside table and dealt with the refreshed trousers. Then he took down a vivid red silk bathrobe that was hanging on the back of the door. ‘Not yet,’ Churchill said, ‘I’ve not finished my papers.’ ‘You’ll be late,’ the other man insisted. ‘Family’s already gathered round fire, and if you’re not down there soon, Mr Oliver will be on serenading us all with his piano music.’ ‘Bloody racket.’ ‘Exactly,’ Sawyers agreed, holding up the bathrobe in the manner of a matador tempting a bull. ‘Not now, not now,’ Churchill said, shaking the paper in his hand. ‘D’you know there’s a Nazi battleship on the loose in the southern Atlantic?’ ‘I dare say it’ll still be there after luncheon.’ The servant stood resolute. ‘You can sink it then.’ Churchill was contemplating the next phase of this battle for domestic supremacy when, in some distant part of the old house, notes began to cascade from a piano and a baby started to cry. Instantly Nelson sprang from his warming place at the old man’s feet, arching his back in displeasure before strutting from their view. Churchill had been deserted by his last remaining ally. Sawyers barely stirred. Only the rustle of the silk robe and the elevation of the left eyebrow suggested he was claiming victory. Churchill cursed. His concentration was broken and nothing more would be achieved that morning. He had lost the battle of the bathrobe. He heaved himself from his bed, scattering papers in his wake, and, ignoring his servant, stomped off in the direction of the bathroom. It was known as Chequers Court, an age-mellowed manor house constructed of red brick and surrounded by parklands and beech woods in the Chiltern hills, some forty miles to the north-west of London. It was graced by ambitious chimneys, loose windows and a system of heating that, in deference to the ancient timbers, remained totally inadequate. Chequers had once belonged to Mr and Mrs Arthur Lee, who had no children and therefore no lasting use for the property, so in 1921 they had handed it over to the nation complete with all its furniture and fine paintings as a country retreat for whoever was Prime Minister of the day. A year earlier the occupant had been Neville Chamberlain, a proud but inadequate man who remained mercifully unaware that the dogs of misfortune were already on his trail and would soon tear him apart. Calamity had got him first, then cancer, and only six weeks ago they had buried him. Dust to dust. So the keys had been passed to Winston Churchill, who had summoned three generations of his family to spend Christmas with him in his new retreat. It was to be a special occasion, one that everyone present would remember, although, in hindsight, not for all the most comforting reasons. Sawyers had risen before six that morning to make sure that everything was in proper festive order. The fire in the Great Hall had been lit, the boilers stoked, the baths run, breakfast served in the bedrooms, the great dinner prepared on a scale that was prodigious. Hitler’s U-boat campaign in the Atlantic was supposed to be starving the country into submission, but the German Fuehrer had apparently failed to take into consideration the legendary Mrs Landemare, who was in charge of the Chequers kitchen. She was short, exceedingly stout, and married to a renowned French chef, but her prime loyalty was directed towards the Prime Minister, whose gastronomic demands were notorious. Breakfast was taken in bed and often consisted of chops as well as bacon and a glass of something red, while what followed throughout the day would have left the regulators at the Ministry of Food reeling in horror. There wasn’t supposed to be much food around, but Churchill had a lot of good friends, and so did Mrs Landemare. As a consequence the huge bleached wooden table that ran down the centre of the kitchen was now piled high like that of a medieval court. The first course—an entire smoked salmon, half a dozen lobsters and several pots of duck terrine—had been provided by parliamentary colleagues, all anxious to display their loyalty and show off the extent of their country estates. The dessert that sat at the end of the table was a thick-crusted pie filled with apples from the orchards at Churt, the home of a previous Prime Minister, David Lloyd George. Churchill’s own family home at Chartwell had been the source of most of the fresh vegetables, sent up by train, while as usual Mrs Landemare had made up any shortfall from the contacts she maintained below the stairs of several other country estates. But the pride of place in this year of famine was occupied by the turkey—an enormous beast, sent on the instructions of the dying Viscount Rothermere as one of his last mortal acts, perhaps in repentance for the appalling things his newspapers had often written about Churchill. It had been plucked, stuffed, basted, and was now roasting under the watchful eye and moist brow of the blessed Mrs Landemare. ‘Unusual large, cook,’ Sawyers had said as he’d watched her thrusting chestnut stuffing deep inside the bird. Mrs Landemare had given a defiant twirl of her white cap to keep the perspiration from dripping into her eyes. ‘What were you expecting me to give him for his Christmas dinner? Toast? Anyhows, Mr S, we might find there’s even a couple of mouthfuls left over for the likes of us.’ ‘Wouldn’t want it to go wasting, cook,’ he’d said. ‘I might even be able to find a bottle of something to go with it, like.’ ‘You are a man after my own heart, Mr Sawyers, so you are,’ she had exclaimed, smiling. She didn’t mean it, of course. Sawyers was unmarried and always would be—‘a gentleman’s gentleman, one of those who lisps to port,’ as she would explain it to friends, ‘but there’s nobody else on God’s earth who can deal with Mr Winston the way that he can.’ And so long as Mr Winston was happy, he wouldn’t miss an occasional bottle. Ah, but as for Mr Randolph, the son, he was altogether another matter… Randolph Churchill, the sole, much-excused and overindulged son of the Prime Minister had been expected to arrive at Chequers the previous evening, Christmas Eve, but a hurried phone call had offered some vague excuse about pressing duties—easy enough to concoct, given his status as an officer in No. 8 Commando and a newly elected Member of Parliament. But Sawyers was sceptical. The younger Churchill hardly ever passed through his constituency and his regiment was notorious for its careless habits; the only landmark Randolph and his fellow officers could be relied upon to hit while on exercise was the officers’ mess. That, in Sawyers’ eye, was not enough to condemn him—it seemed little more than aristocratic excess, the pampering of the privileged class—but there were other reasons why Sawyers reserved for ‘his master’s little echo’ the contempt that only servants can manage to keep out of sight of others. The first was the man’s spitefulness. It wasn’t for Sawyers to moralize if Randolph decided to spend the night his son was born in the arms of another man’s wife, but to make it so blatantly obvious was unnecessarily cruel. Like burning beetles. And there was a more personal reason. Even after all the years Sawyers had served his father, after the many times he’d been forced to help the son to his bed, take off his soiled clothes, clean up after his excesses, he knew that Randolph didn’t even know his first name. Didn’t care. Wasn’t important. For the younger Churchill, Sawyers was as insignificant and expendable as old orange peel. He arrived that morning, shortly before his father came down and while the rest of the family including his young wife Pamela was gathered round the log fire, singing carols. He appeared, dark-eyed, dishevelled, and told them he had spent the night on some railway station platform waiting for his train. That was possible, as a matter of fact, but doubtful as a matter of habit. Hardship wasn’t Randolph’s style. But Sawyers would find out where he’d been sleeping, given a few days. The network that operated below the stairs of all fashionable homes—the same one that made up for any shortages in Mrs Landemare’s kitchen—would also make up for any shortcomings in Randolph’s explanation. The man simply didn’t realize that the servants knew. Could tell whether a bed had been slept in, by how many and to what purpose. The telltale signs on a freshly laundered sheet were as clear to a chambermaid’s eye as an elephant’s rump, and if the chambermaid knew, the news would get round the scullery faster than a mouse. Yet, for the moment, there was harmony. Sawyers stood guard as the family sang their carols, led by the old man, who had a voice that sounded as if it had been broken on a capstan. It was as close as Churchill got nowadays to his son-in-law, Vic Oliver, who was playing the piano. Oliver had never truly been part of the Churchill family scene; he was a music-hall comedian who had been born an Austrian and who was now a naturalized American citizen. It was difficult to count the number of reasons why Churchill held reservations about him: he was brash, he was so much older than Churchill’s daughter, Sarah, he had been married twice before. He also preferred to crack jokes for a living when in Churchill’s view he should have been cracking German skulls. Oliver used words like ‘cute’ and ‘Britisher’. In retribution, Churchill had given him a copy of Fowler’s Dictionary of Modern English Usage. But mostly Churchill’s antipathy was because of the effect Oliver had on Sarah. She had always been a perfectionist, desperate for applause and approval—it was one of the reasons why she had become an actress—yet she could never persuade herself that she merited any measure of her success. She had rushed into marriage, but it had only caused her sense of inadequacy to grow worse. She was beautiful but fragile, while Oliver was domineering. It had left her limping like a butterfly with a broken wing. The eldest daughter was Diana. She had the same blue eyes and auburn hair of Sarah, inherited from their father, yet Diana was as reticent as her father was extrovert, as sensitive as he was bullish. When the Churchill family was at play, to most outsiders it seemed as though they were at war, and at such moments Diana would withdraw to the sidelines and wait to tend the casualties. Her husband, Duncan Sandys, was constructed of sterner stuff. He was a Member of Parliament and a colonel on active duty, and she clearly adored him, but marriage was never an easy option in the Churchill family. Only Mary, the youngest, seemed completely at ease, more down to earth than any of them, her family path beaten flat by the struggles of those who had gone before. As they exchanged presents, they fussed over Pamela’s baby, Churchill’s first grandchild, still only ten weeks old, and when it was time for the King’s radio broadcast they stood for the National Anthem, then sat on the edge of their seats as they waited for one of his terrible stutters to tangle his words—all except Randolph, who relaxed in the folds of his armchair with a whisky. But His Majesty didn’t falter, announcing that his countrymen could look forward to the New Year with sober confidence. Well, some of them, at least. When the King had finished they were at last released to the dining room. ‘Pour the wine, Sawyers!’ the old man instructed. As the first dribble of golden liquid fell into his glass, he grabbed the bottle, trying to decipher the label. ‘Where are my reading glasses, Sawyers? What have you done with them?’ ‘I suspect you’ll find ’em in yer top pocket.’ ‘Dammit,’ Churchill said, fumbling for his elusive glasses, ‘so what is this you’re trying to poison us with?’ ‘An excellent hock. A gift to yer from Mrs Chamberlain. From the late Prime Minister’s personal cellar.’ ‘German, is it?’ ‘That’s right. Given him by an admirer.’ ‘Ah, one of von Ribbon-top’s bottles, I’ll be bound.’ ‘I’ll throw it away, then.’ ‘Steady on, it’s a pre-Nazi vintage, I’ll say that much for it,’ Churchill said, peering at the label. ‘A shame to get rid of it before we’ve had a chance to taste it. So damn the Fuehrer and pour, Sawyers. What are you waiting for, man?’ ‘Damn the Fuehrer, zur.’ The servant moved along the table, filling glasses and condemning the Fuehrer at every turn, ignoring the scowls of Clementine who, even after so many years of enduring blasphemy at her table, still insisted on showing her displeasure. ‘And God save us from the bloody Bolsheviks,’ Churchill added, pulling apart a lobster. A considerable quantity of Mr Chamberlain’s hock had been tested by the time Sawyers brought in the turkey, laid out upon a huge wooden carving dish. ‘A fine specimen, Sawyers,’ Churchill pronounced, nodding at the bird. ‘Indeed, zur.’ The servant sharpened the carving knife as Mrs Landemare and a maid carried in dishes of vegetables. Randolph took the opportunity to raise his glass in mock salute. ‘Meleagris gallopavo. The turkey. About the only useful thing the Americans ever sent us. That and tobacco.’ He swallowed deep. ‘Such a fundamentally useless nation.’ ‘Randolph!’ his mother snapped in reproach. ‘You forget. Your grandmother was American.’ ‘And we shouldn’t attack those who extend the hand of friendship,’ his father warned, more softly, but the son swirled the green liquid in his glass as though to excite the argument. The rest of them knew what to expect. Sawyers stared in warning at Mrs Landemare and the maid, who vanished like ghosts at dawn. ‘It seems to me a strange sort of friendship, Papa, that ends up with our pockets being picked and our Empire held to ransom.’ ‘That is a wholly reprehensible remark.’ ‘And holy fact. You know it is. They’ve bled us dry. Filched every last penny from our pockets until we’re practically bankrupt.’ ‘Please don’t argue with your father, not today,’ Clementine said, knowing her words would prove entirely useless. ‘Mama, we are penniless. Quite literally. Not a bean.’ ‘You always exaggerate, Randolph.’ ‘Papa, please tell Mama what happened when you wrote to Roosevelt the other week to tell him our reserves were exhausted.’ Churchill looked in despair at the turkey. ‘Papa, please…’ Randolph insisted. ‘Shall I carve, zur?’ Sawyers said, forcing his way into the conversation. ‘A bit o’ leg, Mr Randolph, or do you prefer breast?’ But the younger Churchill was not to be diverted. ‘Mama, we told the President we had next to nothing left, down to our last fifty million in gold. So what did he do, this so-called friend of ours? He sent one of his own destroyers to South Africa to collect the entire bloody lot. He thinks Papa is Santa Claus!’ ‘We owed him the money for war mat?riel. He was in a most difficult position,’ Churchill began defensively. But already Randolph was rushing past him. ‘No, Papa. We are in the difficult position. And he takes advantage of us.’ ‘He is a great friend.’ ‘Gossip on the circuit is he doesn’t even like you.’ ‘You may deal in gossip, Randolph, but I must deal in hard facts!’ Churchill responded irritably. ‘And the fact is, Papa, that we’ve paid him every last shekel, and he sends us nothing but junk.’ ‘Destroyers. He sends us destroyers,’ Clemmie intervened. ‘Junk!’ Randolph spat. ‘The only ships he sends us are rust buckets from the last war which are so old they’re already obsolete. Do you know, Mama, that before we get them they have to be officially certified by the US Navy as being useless? And they bloody are.’ ‘The President has to operate within the laws of his country and under the eye of a sceptical Congress,’ Churchill responded. ‘His hands are tied.’ ‘Papa, Papa.’ The son raised his own hands in operatic despair. ‘The time for excuses is gone. That might have washed while he was running for re-election, but now he’s won. Back in the White House for another four years. Roosevelt is tied by nothing but his own timidity.’ ‘His people do not want war.’ ‘Our own people don’t want war!’ Randolph banged the table in anger. ‘We seem to have got it nonetheless.’ Churchill chewed on his unlit cigar. As so often, buried in the midst of his son’s excess lay an unwholesome chunk of truth, like gristle running through meat. Roosevelt had promised his people peace, had told the mothers of America again and again—and then again—that their boys were not going to be sent to any foreign war. It was politics, of course, democracy at its most base, the lowest common denominator, but there came a point where you judged a man not simply by his words but by his habits. And it worried Churchill more deeply than he cared to admit how the US President had fallen into the habit of ignoring his messages. His silences could no longer be explained away as electoral distraction, that was now gone, the barrier surmounted, yet since the election a few weeks earlier there had been a remarkable chill in the wind that had blown from Washington. Roosevelt hadn’t even replied to Churchill’s telegram of congratulation, and his debt-collecting methods had come to resemble those of an Irish landlord rather than a Christian friend. And that was the point, for Churchill clung to his view that he was fighting not just for the narrow interests of Britain but on behalf of a shared cultural tradition that crossed the Atlantic and stretched back two thousand years and more. Yet Roosevelt would have none of it. It seemed America wanted only to be paid. ‘Carve the bloody turkey, Sawyers,’ Churchill said. ‘And let’s pretend it’s Christmas.’ Arguments over lunch were nothing new and Christmas still had many hours to go in the Churchill household, yet it was never fully to recover its spirit. Indeed, the day was eventually to founder completely, ruined by events that had taken place some weeks beforehand and in another part of the world. The SS Automedon had set sail from Liverpool on 24 September 1940, bound for Singapore and Shanghai with a beggar’s muddle of a cargo consisting of crated aircraft, motor cars, machine parts, cigarettes and many cases of whisky. It seemed likely to be an unexceptional voyage. She wasn’t a ship of much note in anybody’s logbook, a twenty-year-old ocean workhorse with a tall funnel, a single screw and a crew of English officers helped out by mostly Chinese deckhands. By mid-November the Automedon was some two hundred and fifty miles off the coast of Sumatra when, late one night, her radio operator picked up a distress call from a Norwegian merchant vessel. The signal said that she was being followed by an unknown ship; a little later the Norwegian reported that she had been stopped, after which—nothing. Total silence. It was a strange incident, but these were strange times and the affair caused more curiosity than concern to the Automedon’s Captain Ewan. However, it was enough to ensure that when an unidentified ship appeared at first light some distance off the port bow, Ewan spent a considerable time peering through his binoculars at the vessel. The stranger was flying a Dutch flag, innocent enough, and Ewan could see what looked like women hanging out washing on lines stretched across the foredeck. She was drawing slowly closer. McEwan concluded that the vessel was a friendly merchantman, much like dozens of others the Automedon had passed since leaving Liverpool. They were on parallel courses and only a couple of thousand yards apart when the new vessel suddenly increased speed and identified herself as the German raider Atlantis. At the same moment, she fired a warning shot across Ewan’s bow. He had been duped. He immediately ordered his radio operator to send a distress signal, so the Atlantis began to pour round after round into the Automedon in a desperate attempt to prevent the signal being completed and her location discovered. The German assault was totally successful. After being hit twenty-eight times in less than three minutes, the Automedon lay listing and defenceless, her radio silenced, her captain killed on his bridge and her fate entirely unknown to the wider world. The Kriegsmarine had claimed one more victim. The Automedon was a small ship, little more than seven thousand tons, yet in time her loss was to change the course of the war. Indeed, in time, it would change the world. None of this was known to the Churchills when, around midnight, they gathered in the Long Gallery, a room filled with the smell of smoke and old books that stretched along the north front of Chequers to form its library. That night, behind its blackout curtains, it had been transformed into a makeshift cinema. ‘You shall sit beside me, Pamela,’ Churchill said to his daughter-in-law, patting the seat next to him on the sofa while the others searched around to find themselves comfortable perches, all except for Clemmie, a most reluctant participant in any of her husband’s late-night frolics, who had long since bidden them farewell and departed for her bed. ‘A special treat for Christmas,’ Churchill told Pamela, as Sawyers erected the screen and fussed over the projector. ‘There is a friend of mine, Mr Alexander Korda, a Hungarian who makes very fine films. He and I are much alike. He loves cigars. He is often broke. And he is always impeccably dressed.’ Pamela wanted to giggle. She doubted if Mr Korda had gravy stains running down the lapels of his jacket. ‘He has sent me his most recent work,’ her fatherin-law continued. ‘It’s not yet been released to the public. It’s about Horatio Nelson. I’ve even given Mr Korda some advice on the matter—oh, just a few words here and there to place in the admiral’s mouth.’ He waved his brandy glass in a simulation of modesty, and began to address her as though she were a public audience. ‘You know, at the opening of the last century when Napoleon’s armies dominated the continent, the people in these islands of ours fought on alone for many years. At times it seemed impossible that they should prevail, until Nelson rallied them to the cause. Now it seems that history wishes to repeat its great cycle, and once more we search for our Nelson.’ ‘Some of us think we’ve already found him,’ she replied, smiling and taking his soft hand. His eyes began to mist. ‘You know, my dear, you are a most unusual pearl. I shall never know how Randolph found you, let alone persuaded you to marry him.’ Perhaps it was better that the old man never knew. The truth was that Randolph had picked Pamela up on a blind date and proposed to her the following night. Married six weeks later, just as war had broken out. It was only afterwards that she discovered she was the eighth woman he’d pursued with the prospect of marriage in less than a month. Oh, it was one of those things that happened in wartime. For young soldiers such as Randolph, war had a brutal simplicity. They expected to die, so every long night, every available woman, was taken as their last. They didn’t so much embrace the moment as grab it in both hands, and in the rush the common standards and decencies were often thrown to one side. But the British were ridiculously inept at the soldierly traditions of rape and pillage, so instead they hurried to churches and register offices, hoping to find in their marriage beds something that was worth fighting and dying for. But Randolph hadn’t died. He was there in an armchair, picking his nose and demanding another drink from the ubiquitous Sawyers. Yet for all his shortcomings he had introduced her to a new world that took her breath away. Eighteen months ago Pamela had been an unsophisticated teenager from rural Dorset with nothing more on her mind than flower arranging and the occasional midnight fumble with a taxi tiger; now she found herself at the epicentre of a war. When she had first met Randolph, his father had been an outsider, distrusted by his colleagues and despised by many, yet now he was the Prime Minister, and that made everyone in the family a target. He’d warned them all. If the Germans invaded, he had told them, they should fight to the very end. ‘With bullets, with bayonets,’ he had declared. ‘But, Papa,’ she had said, ‘I don’t know how to use a gun.’ ‘Then go to the kitchen and find a carving knife! You know how to use a carving knife, don’t you, woman?’ He could be such a little boy at times. Perhaps that was why they got on so well. They could both still enjoy the enthusiasms of being children, she because she hadn’t yet grown up, and he because in some ways he never would. ‘Enough time-wasting, Sawyers,’ he now told the valet. ‘Out with the bottle and on with the show!’ ‘It’s on table beside yer.’ ‘What is?’ ‘Yer brandy.’ ‘Ah, what a charming coincidence. Then what are you waiting for?’ Lights were switched off until there was nothing but the glow of the wood-stoked fire and the flickering of the film. Soon they were immersed in the tale of Nelson and his mistress, Emma Hamilton, a dancer and woman of questionable virtue who came to captivate the warrior’s heart. The actress was Vivien Leigh. ‘She is extraordinarily beautiful,’ Churchill whispered in Pamela’s ear. ‘So very much like you.’ Beside her on the sofa, Pamela felt the old man melt as England was shown friendless, alone, its armed forces denied supplies, with nothing to eat, a country fighting for its survival and little other than one man’s determination to keep it from succumbing. Yet, as Emma pointed out, England seemed so insignificant, ‘just a tiny little bit’ on the globe compared with the might of the enemy that had spread so far across the map of Europe. Her eyes lit up with wonder as she was told in reply: ‘…there are always men who, for the sake of their insane ambition, want to destroy what other people have built. And therefore this “tiny little bit” has to send out its ships again and again to fight those who want to dictate their will to others.’ Pamela felt her hand being squeezed with almost painful force as the words showered from the screen upon Churchill. She knew they were the words that he had written. So the images flickered and the ships went out once more to confront the European tyrant, willing to be blown to bits in the hope that the enemy would be pulverized to even smaller pieces. England expected it of them. Then Nelson, mortally wounded at the moment of his supreme triumph, paid the price that freedom so often demands. ‘Thank God I have done my duty,’ he gasped, his words melting into the strains of ‘Rule Britannia’ and shouts of victory from those Englishmen who had survived. In the glow of the firelight, Pamela could see tears streaming down the old man’s face. They were still there when the last foot of film had passed through the gate and was clattering around its reel. ‘That is how I should like to die,’ Churchill whispered. ‘Such a fine ending.’ She knew he was being completely sincere. He disappeared into the folds of a huge silk handkerchief. Pamela decided it would be ungracious to point out that he’d noticed only the Boy’s-Own bits of the film and that the final moments had concerned themselves not with the glories of Nelson’s death but with the demise many years later of Emma as an ageing alcoholic sprawled piteously on the wet cobbles of some foreign port. It wasn’t just the men who paid a price in war. The clocks had long since chimed two. Sawyers damped down the fire. The filmgoers were stretching their legs and preparing to depart for bed when, from somewhere in the distance, the sound of a motor-car engine carried on the frozen night air. Churchill suddenly grew still. A change came over him, like a dog sensing danger that he couldn’t yet identify. But a motor car meant a new message, and on this day and at this time of night, the message could mean only one thing. Disaster. ‘Couldn’t it wait?’ the old man enquired, his voice beginning to rasp with fatigue and anxiety. But he already knew the answer. Sir Stewart Menzies, known simply as ‘C’ in the corridors of power, was the head of Churchill’s Secret Intelligence Service. It made him one of the most powerful men in the country; he hadn’t dropped by at two in the morning simply for the large whisky and cold grate that greeted him in the Hawtrey Room. ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister.’ Churchill’s spymaster unlocked a briefcase and extracted a slim manila folder, which he placed on the table and smoothed open. ‘You won’t have heard of the Automedon, I suspect. No reason why you should. But it’s been sunk by the Nazis.’ Churchill glared defiantly, waiting for the bullet to strike him. ‘It happened last month, on her way to Singapore. Small cargo of car bits, cigarettes, whisky, that sort of thing.’ ‘I suspect the distilleries will be able to resupply them,’ Churchill responded slowly, hoping words might quell the sense of unease that was rising up his gullet. ‘She was boarded before she was sunk, several of her crew killed, including the captain, and the rest captured and taken to the Japanese port of Kobe. They were disembarked in Kobe while waiting to be loaded onto another German ship. That’s when one of our agents managed to speak briefly to members of the crew. We’ve been able to confirm their identity and…’—he paused, steadying himself—‘we have no reason to disbelieve their story.’ ‘Which is?’ ‘While the German boarding party was on board the Automedon, they discovered the ship’s safe in the strong room. They blew it open. Got everything inside it. Decoding tables, maps of harbour defences, minefields, intelligence reports, the lot.’ ‘Such material is the currency of war. This surely amounts to little more than loose change.’ But Menzies was shaking his head. ‘That’s not it, I’m afraid. While they were making their tour of the ship, they also found the body of an Admiralty courier. Beside him was one of our security bags. It seems he was in the process of throwing it overboard when…Well, he didn’t make it. Neither did the bag.’ Churchill knew of these bags. Green canvas, with brass eyelets to allow the water in and lead weights sewn inside to ensure that the bag and its contents sank quickly to the bottom of the ocean. The couriers were instructed to defend these bags with their lives. The courier on the Automedon appeared to have done precisely that. ‘It seems,’ Menzies said slowly, as if every word had suddenly become a burden, ‘that inside the pouch was a letter addressed to Brooke-Popham.’ The name needed no elaboration. Air Chief Marshal Sir Robert Brooke-Popham was the British Commander-in-Chief, Far East, based in Singapore. His was one of the most sensitive and difficult commands anywhere in the Empire. ‘Usual routine for top secret material,’ Menzies continued. ‘Instructions that it be opened by no other hand et cetera et cetera.’ He sipped at his whisky, but appeared to find no enjoyment in it. His lips were tightly pursed. ‘When the German ship reached Japan, the letter apparently found its way to the German Ambassador in Tokyo—we have that from intercepts—and he in turn handed it on to Kondo.’ ‘Kondo?’ ‘The Vice Chairman of the Japanese Imperial Naval General Staff.’ Churchill stared into the cold, empty hearth. ‘And what did the letter contain?’ ‘It was…dear God, I think you’ll remember it, Prime Minister.’ Menzies sighed, his shoulders falling in discouragement. ‘A copy of the analysis drawn up by our Chiefs of Staff on our ability to defend ourselves in the Far East in the event that the Japanese declare war on us.’ Churchill froze. He did not stir for many moments, but the glass in his hand tilted as his fingers seemed to lose all sensation. The only sound in the room was the slow dripping of whisky onto the carpet. Eventually a tremor came to his lips. ‘What on earth was it doing on a tramp steamer like the Automedon?’ ‘It’s a tangled little tale,’ Menzies said, finding comfort now that he would be able to offload the burden—and, with it, much of the blame—onto other shoulders. ‘Apparently the War Office didn’t want the paper to get to Singapore too quickly—not in the middle of the difficult negotiations with the Australians—you know what’s been happening. They’ve been pestering us with demands for more and more British reinforcements to be sent to the Far East, while we’ve been insisting that there is no real need. So apparently it was felt that the paper would only…How can I put it?’ ‘Complicate the situation.’ ‘Precisely.’ ‘They decided to cover their arses,’ Churchill growled. ‘They would send it, but so slowly that by the time it arrived it might be buried in obsolescence. Of no use to—and no blame upon—anyone.’ ‘I think that’s a reasonably accurate summary, yes. They also wanted to get it to Singapore in a manner that would arouse no suspicion. So they…’ ‘Put it on a rust bucket.’ ‘That seems to be about the measure of it, Prime Minister. I’m so very sorry.’ But Churchill was no longer listening. His face was flushed with both anger and anguish as his mind cast back to the contents of the paper that he himself had commissioned. It ran to seventy-eight closely argued paragraphs and came to one damning conclusion—a conclusion so devastating that he had refused to allow it to be discussed even by his War Cabinet. Churchill leant forward, as though wanting to spring at the other man, fixing him in the eye. ‘The Japanese have it? You are sure?’ His stare was returned. ‘On the basis of what we know, it seems all but certain.’ ‘Then may God preserve us.’ The Chiefs of Staff had concluded that the British couldn’t beat the Japanese. Not a chance, not on their own. Hong Kong, Malaya, Singapore, all the territories and possessions of the British in the Far East, the jewels of their Empire, were virtually defenceless. Waiting to be plundered. And the Japanese knew it. A little later, as Churchill climbed the stairs to bed, he found himself accompanied by an unfamiliar and deeply troubling sensation. Only in the middle of the night, when he was still struggling to sleep, did he finally recognize the ruffian. It was fear. TWO (#ulink_7bc2dc99-fc96-585f-8263-07ac7e8c39d8) Anthony Eden, the Foreign Secretary, was a man of both power and charm; some even said that he would be the next Prime Minister. Yet beneath his suave and immaculately groomed exterior there were occasions when he betrayed the inner tension that left him thin and always anxious. ‘Try hanging it on the other wall, will you?’ he instructed tersely. The two workmen cast a disdainful eye at the politician. ‘Not the only thing that could do with a little hanging,’ one of them muttered darkly, but out of earshot. ‘This wall, that wall, whichever wall he wants, it’s still only a ruddy painting.’ Eden turned from his examination of the panelling. ‘You have a problem?’ ‘Not really.’ ‘Speak up, man. Better in than out.’ ‘Well, sir, I don’t understand why we have to move the blessed thing at all. Been there long enough. Why do we have to move it just ’cos some Americans are coming?’ ‘Because it’s George the Third.’ The explanation was met with a blank stare. ‘He was mad,’ Eden continued. ‘But still a king,’ the workman countered doggedly. ‘Our king.’ ‘I take your point. But kings aren’t particularly popular with Americans. Particularly this one.’ The towering portrait of George III with its ornate gilt frame had dominated the meeting room of the Foreign Office since, well, ever since anyone could remember, but now it was to be moved. Eden had instructed that all appropriate arrangements were to be made for welcoming the forthcoming American delegation and had clearly come to the conclusion that a portrait of the mad king who had helped ignite the American Revolution would cast an inappropriate shadow over proceedings. It had to be moved somewhere less prominent. ‘Let’s try it on the other wall,’ he suggested, waving an elegant cuff but without much sign of conviction. The workman and his partner didn’t move a muscle. ‘What?’ ‘Not going to work. Not there. Not anywhere,’ the workman said. ‘Why on earth not?’ Eden enquired, stuffing his thumbs deep into the pockets of his waistcoat. ‘Look at it, sir.’ The workman took a step forward. ‘It’s just too big. Turn his face to the wall and you’re still going to see his ermine slippers sticking out underneath. It’s enormous.’ Then, less loudly: ‘And we should know. Been moving it all morning.’ Eden cast a dark eye at the workman. He had thought him a monarchist, but now he suspected him of being simply a troublemaker. ‘Are you a Communist?’ ‘What?’ ‘Oh, never mind.’ The Foreign Secretary went back to examining his dilemma while the workman picked at the fragment of his cigarette with a broken orange fingernail. ‘Why the hell we have to be so nice to the bloody Yanks is beyond me,’ he said, turning to his colleague. ‘Late for the last war, they was. Run away from this war. Doing nothing but sitting on their backsides in Wall Street and soaking us dry.’ Suddenly Eden turned, furious. He’d heard. ‘We need them because right now we have no one else.’ He strode up to the man who he was now certain was a Bolshevik. ‘Where else do you think we’ll get the destroyers and other weapons we need to win this war?’ But the workman was not to be cowed. He was no revolutionary, but in his eyes it was Eden and his kind who had got them into this bloody war in the first place. If he was to be asked for his opinion, he was going to give it. ‘I hear we can’t afford it. Can’t afford the Americans as friends.’ Eden snorted in exasperation. That was the difficulty with men such as this who wandered into every corner and crevice of the Foreign Office. They heard too much, yet understood so little. ‘Of course we can’t afford it, but that’s no longer the point. The Americans have suggested they lend us the mat?riel instead, for the duration of the war. We borrow everything—the bombers, fighters, ships, guns, tanks, vehicles—then afterwards give them back. It’s called Lend-Lease.’ ‘But not fighting…’ ‘Not fighting, exactly. But assisting. Making it possible for us to win the war. A partnership.’ He clapped his hands. ‘But that’s it!’ he cried. ‘We could get another picture. Put it alongside. Something…well…American. Don’t we have something down in the basement?’ ‘We’ve got a George Washington somewhere,’ the workman’s colleague began. ‘Splendid! Fetch it up. Put it alongside. It’ll balance the whole thing out.’ The workman was less enthused. ‘Stupid pillock,’ he said softly and very slowly to his colleague. ‘We’ll be shifting pictures all ruddy afternoon.’ Which is precisely what happened. They hauled and sweated their way up from the basement with the new portrait, a remnant from the State Visit of President Woodrow Wilson in 1918. The basement was three floors down. Which meant three floors back up. But no matter how much they shifted the paintings around the room, still it would not work. The portrait of the first American President was only a fraction the size of the umpteenth English king, and in whatever position they were tried, the result looked more like deliberate insult than diplomatic master stroke. Eden eventually threw up his hands in despair. ‘You’ll have to take them both down to the basement,’ he said. ‘What? Take down the King?’ the workman asked in bewilderment. ‘To the basement?’ ‘We can’t afford to offend the Americans. There’s no other way,’ the Foreign Secretary announced before examining his pocket watch and rushing from the room. He left the workman squatting on his haunches, trying to manufacture another spindly cigarette. ‘Take down the King? To the basement?’ he kept saying over and over, as if through repetition he would come to understanding. ‘Makes you wonder, don’t it?’ ‘What’s that?’ his colleague asked. ‘Who the bloody hell’s in charge here.’ The bathroom was small, narrow and hopelessly impractical. It had no windows and only the most rudimentary of ventilation systems, and was buried behind several feet of concrete. The planners who had built the fortified Annexe around the corner from Downing Street had wanted to ensure that, whatever else happened to him, Churchill wasn’t going—in his own words—‘to be blown out of his own bloody bath’. It was no idle threat; bath time was one of his set rituals. He would throw himself into the water, submerging completely, then surface once more, blowing like a whale. In between dives he would reflect, dictate, compose and shout orders, all the while cheating outrageously on the maximum level of bath water recommended by his own scrimping Government. A flustered assistant came stumbling from the room, brow beaded in sweat, his glasses steamed, his notebook crumpled, the ink running down the page, nearly knocking into Randolph as he fled. Another male secretary was hovering, waiting his turn to go in, and Sawyers was fussing away near at hand, but both of them drew back as the Prime Minister’s son appeared, clad in the service dress of a captain, No. 8 Commando. ‘Papa?’ Randolph said, standing in the doorway. He took a step forward and was immediately enveloped in a fog of condensation, through which the outline of his father began to emerge, pink, perspiring, standing in front of the sink, shaving, completely naked. ‘Don’t shut that door,’ Winston snapped, wiping away at the mirror. ‘Not unless you want me to cut my own damned throat.’ ‘Why don’t you bathe in St James’s Park,’ Randolph said. ‘It could scarcely be more public.’ ‘Whaddya mean?’ ‘You think Hitler wanders around the Reichs Chancellery waving his baubles about? It’s so bloody undignified.’ They couldn’t help arguing. Always had. For them it was like breath, and love, and light—as natural as the dew following the night. ‘I blame myself,’ Churchill began testily, ‘for sending you to the wrong type of school. Private showers and all that nonsense. It’s unhealthy. Encourages misconduct when you’re behind locked doors. And lack of candour when you’re not.’ He resumed scraping away the soap on his chin with a large open-bladed razor. ‘At Harrow, we used to be naked all the time, in the swimming pool, in the showers. That’s when I first met the men who now occupy some of the highest positions in the land—men of the cloth and of the law, even some in my own Cabinet. That’s why they all trust me. They know I have nothing to hide.’ He threw the blade into the sink and began groping for a towel. ‘Nakedness teaches you to look another man directly in the eye.’ ‘Better still, not to trust him behind your back.’ Churchill turned. ‘Let’s not argue, Randolph. Not on your last day. Not before you leave for the warrior’s life in the desert.’ ‘Cairo is scarcely the desert, Papa. Must you romanticize everything?’ ‘There will be nothing romantic in what is about to take place in the Middle East. Where you are going could yet prove to be the fulcrum of the whole war.’ ‘Is that why we’ve been sent by those weevils in the War Office to train amongst the ice floes of the Clyde? So we can serve in the Middle East?’ ‘From what I’ve heard, the officers of your regiment appear to have undertaken most of their training in the bar rooms and fleshpots of Glasgow.’ ‘What else is there to do on a winter’s night in such a God-awful place?’ They were at it again. Bristling. Born to fight. And Randolph carried with him the appalling burden for a fighting man of being the son of a Prime Minister. No one took him seriously. He wanted to be part of this war and was desperate to be sent overseas in search of action, for whatever else they might say about him, he was no coward. He’d joined his father’s old regiment, the 4th Hussars, in the hope it would get him sent to a battlefront, but they made it no further than Hull—held back, it was said, because he was his father’s son. So he had transferred to a commando unit—surely there would be action there. But only brawls on the street with Scotsmen. So the bathroom became a battleground, too. Suddenly the moment was broken by a familiar voice. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Randolph.’ Sawyers, damn the man. When he issued a request it carried all the authority of high command, even with his lisp. Reluctantly Randolph made way as the valet placed a set of carefully laundered silk underwear over the wooden towel rail, but his real purpose was to scold them both, reminding them that this might prove to be their last moment together on earth and they might never have the opportunity of forgiving or forgetting what was said between them. The servant managed to convey all this with no more than a raised eyebrow. Churchill took his valet’s cue. ‘My darling boy,’ he said, and instantly a truce was declared. ‘You are about to embark upon the greatest adventure of your lifetime, and I know that whatever it is you are about to do will be done with honour and with formidable distinction.’ He finished climbing into his underwear and dressing gown, and was decent once again. ‘You know, Randolph, nine months ago when I became Prime Minister, I promised the people victory. Victory whatever the cost; that’s what I told them. They have borne the terrible cost yet seen precious little of the victory. So I beg you—be brave, fight boldly. The Middle East may not be the place where the final triumph is decided, but let it at least be where it is begun.’ ‘I’ll do my best, Papa.’ ‘Brighter days lie ahead, of that I am certain. So in everything you do, be a Churchill!’ And they embraced. ‘But how shall we win, Papa—finally?’ ‘Not alone. With others.’ ‘What others?’ ‘The Americans, of course.’ ‘The Americans?’ ‘They have already taken the first step. President Roosevelt has declared that his country will become the great arsenal of democracy.’ ‘Hah! He got that almost right,’ Randolph said, his tone mocking. ‘He’s agreed to lease and lend us all the materials we need,’ his father responded forcefully. ‘So that we can scrabble around as her mercenaries?’ ‘It is an act of unprecedented generosity.’ ‘Or unprincipled calculation! The Americans sit back and make their profits while we fight their war. The only time they ever come into a war is when it’s all but bloody over. Then they’ll crawl out from their bunkers in time to pick the pockets of the wounded.’ ‘The Americans will join us! Not just as supporters and suppliers but as combatants, too. They will join with us. That I promise you.’ ‘Papa, what strange world are you living in? You know what Roosevelt has said, time and again. Fight to the last Briton!’ ‘Oh, but you are cruel. The President has had to act cautiously.’ ‘What? You mean he’s had to keep his clothes on! He won’t step into the showers with us and he daren’t look the American voters in the eye.’ Their voices were rising once again. ‘Statesmen practise the art of the possible, Randolph.’ ‘Roosevelt has the moral compass of a piece of driftwood!’ ‘Such things take time.’ ‘And precisely how much time do you think we have, Papa?’ ‘That may well depend upon what you and your brother officers achieve in the Middle East.’ ‘Then I’d better get out there,’ Randolph snapped, turning away, carried along relentlessly by his addiction to argument. ‘My boy!’ Winston called, despairing. ‘Not—like this. Not to war.’ Tears began to puddle in his eyes. ‘You know I love you.’ The words stopped Randolph in mid-stride. Slowly he turned back, and his father rushed to embrace him. ‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Randolph sighed. ‘I fear I’m not good company at the moment. Been trying to sort out my affairs before I go, but…You know these things. So silly when you set them against war and what’s happening.’ ‘You have troubles?’ He shrugged. ‘A few bills I’d completely forgotten about.’ Ah, that again. ‘How much?’ the old man asked jadedly. ‘Just a couple of hundred.’ He was unable to return his father’s steady gaze. ‘Not going to happen again, I promise you—promised Pam—I’ve given up gambling. Washed my hands of it. Mug’s game. No bloody good at it, anyway.’ He tried to make light of it—just as he had done last time. ‘I shall write you another cheque.’ ‘That…would be splendid, Papa. For Pam. Mean a lot to her. And allow me to go off with a clear conscience.’ ‘I shall hold you to your promise.’ But Randolph was already brighter, his confidence returning. ‘And I shall hold you to yours. Drag America into this war, and I swear—on my life as a soldier, Papa—I’ll never gamble another brass farthing.’ Churchill’s blue eyes were fixed on his son, trying to tie him to the spot, not wanting him to leave, knowing this moment might be their last. ‘May God give me enough time,’ he said softly. ‘Little by little, step by step, they will be drawn to the fight. They must. Otherwise all this suffering, all the sacrifice, the lives that have been given up…’—he faltered slightly—‘and those that are yet to be given up will have been in vain.’ ‘I must go, Papa. I have a job to do.’ ‘And so have I.’ ‘We have an understanding?’ ‘I give you my word.’ Once more Randolph threw himself into his father’s arms, then he was gone, with his father’s tears fresh upon his cheeks. Churchill watched him go. For a long time he stood on the spot, reaching out after his son’s shadow, clinging to the echo of his words, wondering if they would ever see each other again. Then he whispered. ‘Not today, Randolph, not tomorrow perhaps, but they will come. Before it is too late. I promise you.’ The rocket was one of Churchill’s ‘little toys’. He was fond of his toys. He had set up a specialist group of boffins and pyromaniacs to produce them—‘any new weapon, tool or war-thing that might assist us in the task of smashing the enemy to smithereens,’ as he had put it. The official designation of the group was MD1, but to most it was known simply as the ‘Singed Eyebrow Squad’. This morning they were testing a small rocket, no more than three feet in height. What the precise purpose of the weapon was to be, no one was entirely sure; the purpose would come later, after the principle had been proven. Churchill had gathered an unusually large group for the weekend; not only family and personal aides, but two Americans and an assortment of braid from all three services, with a couple of Ministers thrown in for ballast. After breakfast they had gathered on Beacon Hill overlooking Chequers, wrapped in overcoats and scarves against the chill February air, the low sun casting long shadows while an inspection party of crows flew languidly overhead. Those responsible for the day’s matin?e scurried like grave-snatchers through the mist in the pasture below, while Sawyers weaved his way through the entourage on the hilltop dispensing coffee and shots of whisky. ‘Faster, man,’ Churchill encouraged, ‘or we’ll all freeze.’ ‘If we’re going to invite a three-ring circus every weekend, we’ll be needing more hands to help.’ ‘What? Are you saying you can’t cope?’ ‘I can. Boiler can’t.’ ‘What the hell’s the boiler got to do with winning the war?’ ‘Do yer know where Mr Hopkins goes to read his papers?’ Churchill began to growl, his breath condensing in the slow-warming air and giving him the impression of an elderly dragon. It was bluff, and Sawyers knew it. ‘He goes to the bathroom,’ the servant continued. ‘I often read my papers in the bath.’ ‘He’s not in the bath but in his overcoat. Only place in the whole house that’s kepping warm. So he tekks his work into the bathroom and disappears, like, for a couple of hour. Inconvenient fer other guests, so it is.’ Hopkins was frail, American and of huge importance. Churchill thrust out his small tumbler for another shot of warming whisky. ‘So what are you suggesting?’ ‘Like I say, we need help. More hands. Two more maids.’ ‘Two?’ Churchill protested. ‘Two, if we’re to kepp a fire in every room and clean sheets on beds. And help poor Mrs Landemare. She’s not getting any younger.’ Oh, but he was playing the game, and with consummate skill. Sawyers understood his master as well as any man, his foibles, his vanities, his indulgences. His meanness and his dislike of new faces, too. ‘We don’t need two, dammit. This is a war headquarters, not a holiday resort.’ ‘I’m sure Mr Willkie don’t mind sleeping in a British general’s sheets, but what wi’ boiler being in such poor shape, I’m afraid there weren’t time to launder ’em, like, before he arrived.’ Churchill snorted in alarm. Upsetting Mrs Landemare would have consequences creeping close to the point of disaster; upsetting the Americans might take them far beyond. Hopkins was a close friend of Roosevelt, while Willkie had been his opponent in the last presidential election. They had arrived as the President’s personal emissaries—‘to check up on me’, as Churchill had grumbled in exasperation. And to check up on Britain. Roosevelt had announced the principle of Lend-Lease but now he needed to decide how much to send and to lend. Some of his advisers had been whispering in his ear that he wouldn’t be getting much of it back, that most of it might soon be falling into the clutches of the German High Command. So he had sent Hopkins and Willkie to test the temper of both the country and its wayward leader: as the President had put it to Hopkins, ‘we need to know whether the Brits will carry on fighting—and whether Churchill will ever stop.’ Churchill knew all this, knew that his American guests had been sent to spy, and he had responded by trying to seduce and suborn them. Their conclusions—and therefore their comforts—were of immense importance. It was the opportunity Sawyers had been waiting for. ‘A ship lost for ha’p’orth of tar,’ he mused, ‘and a war for an unlaundered sheet.’ He shook his head in mock resignation. ‘One!’ Churchill proclaimed defiantly, but knowing he had lost. ‘One extra maid. That’s as far as we go.’ He glared at Sawyers. ‘And you’d better make sure she’s up to the job.’ Oh, but she was. Sawyers had already made sure of that. A niece of Mrs Landemare’s husband. French, but almost one of the family. ‘I’ll do me best,’ the servant sighed, turning away to tend to the guests, and to smile. In the valley below, the huddle of technicians had broken and a man was waving his arm furiously. From on top of the viewing hill, an officer of the Royal Artillery returned the signal and came hurrying across to Churchill. ‘Permission to proceed, Prime Minister?’ ‘Unless you’d prefer us all to freeze first.’ And there was more waving, and scurrying to a safe distance in the valley below, followed by several tense moments of—nothing. While Churchill stamped his foot in impatience, the Americans turned and smiled graciously. The moments stretched. The senior officers seemed grim and the Ministers embarrassed. Yet suddenly, beneath them, the mists parted like a biblical sea and they saw the rocket beginning to climb into the air. It was hesitant at first, as though uncertain of its direction, the steam and smoke from its motor bursting forth in fits and starts, until it had climbed to perhaps fifty feet in height. Then the engine coughed. The rocket seemed to lose faith. It pitched over. It was at this point, as all seemed lost, that the machine found its life once more and roared into action. It headed straight for the group on top of the hill, leaving a trail of angry, swirling vapours behind it. The circling crows cried in alarm as everyone on the ground scattered like mice, their sticks flying, hats tumbling, all dignity gone, until with one final bullying roar the weapon embedded itself not twenty feet from where they had been standing. Sawyers alone had not moved. As the smoke and panic finally dissolved, the others collected their wits and fallen headgear, and rose to find him still holding a tray brimming with glasses. Not a drop had been spilled. Churchill was panting; he had shown surprising agility for a man of his years. As the others gathered round he waved in the direction of the still smouldering rocket. ‘Needs a little tweaking, don’t you think?’ ‘Winston,’ Hopkins said, reaching for a drink, ‘if it does that to us, think what it might do to the damned Germans. You might yet win the war. Terrorize them into surrender.’ ‘Yes, somehow cannonballs seem so much more logical. In celebration of which I think perhaps we shall watch the Nelson film tonight,’ Churchill announced. ‘Lucky man, was the admiral,’ Sawyers muttered as he gathered up the remaining glasses. ‘What are you grumbling about, man?’ ‘A pot o’ powder and a bit o’ breeze, that’s all he ever asked. Like a personal valet, he was. Only thing he ever wanted was tools to finish the job. One extra maid. How are we supposed to manage wi’ just one extra maid?’ ‘The tools to finish the job?’ Suddenly Churchill let out a roar of merriment and clapped the servant on the shoulder. ‘Sawyers, at times you can be brilliant. You are simply too stupid to realize the fact. Ah, but you are fortunate to serve a man like me, someone who is able to pick the diamonds out from the slag heap of your mind.’ Sawyers stared back blankly. ‘Hurry up, man,’ Churchill barked. ‘We’ll be wanting luncheon in a little while.’ And with that he strode happily down the hill. The broadcast he made the following evening from Chequers was his first in five months. It was still being written right up to the moment of delivery. It bore no resemblance to any earlier draft, for Sawyers’ moment of insight had unleashed a flood of fresh thoughts. Churchill sat at his working table surrounded by the books and oil paintings that filled the walls of the Hawtrey Room, his back to the fire, his script lit by nothing more than a single bulb beneath a green shade, the atmosphere dense and theatrical, almost conspiratorial. He was still scribbling fresh thoughts in the margin of his typed script even as the sound engineer, standing in the doorway, indicated it was time. A growl grew in his throat, a little like the sound of a torpedo about to burst from its tube, and he had begun. He welcomed them, reassured them, drew them in, recounted to them what they already knew, but gave them fresh heart in the retelling. After the heavy defeats of the German Air Force by our fighters in August and September, Herr Hitler did not dare attempt the invasion of this island, although he had every need to do so and had made vast preparations. Baffled in this mighty project, he sought to break the spirit of the British nation by the bombing, first of London and afterwards of our great cities. He made it seem like times past. Oh, if only they were… It has now been proved, to the admiration of the world, and of our friends in the United States, that this form of blackmail by murder and terrorism, sofar from weakening the spirit of the British nation, has only roused it to a more intense and universal flame than was ever seen before! Through the words of defiance they could hear him sipping his whisky, wetting his lips for what was to come. All through these dark winter months the enemy has had the power to drop three or four tons of bombs upon us for every ton we could send to Germany in return. If he seemed to falter a little, it was only for dramatic emphasis, to lead them on. We are arranging so that presently this will be rather the other way around… Defiance—and mockery. The universal sign that the British were not yet completely buggered. Meanwhile, London and our big cities have had to stand their pounding. They remind me of the British squares at Waterloo. They are not squares of soldiers. They do not wear scarlet coats. They are just ordinary English, Scottish and Welsh folk—men, women and children—standing steadfastly together. But their spirit is the same, their glory is the same, and in theend their victory will be greater than far-famed Waterloo! In every corner of the country, in places of work, of rest, of relaxation, even in places of suffering, chins came up and the blood flowed a little faster. But this was not to be a message simply for British ears. Thanks to Sawyers, Churchill’s words were to find both a new focus and a new audience. His words were weapons in this war, and now he aimed them directly at Americans. While this has been happening, a mighty tide of sympathy, of good will and of effective aid has begun to flow across the Atlantic in support of the world cause which is at stake. Distinguished Americans have come over to see things here at the front and to find out how the United States can help us best and soonest. In Mr Hopkins, who has been my frequent companion during these last few weeks, we have the envoy of the President, a President who has been newly re-elected to his august office. In Mr Wendell Willkie we have welcomed the champion of the great Republican Party. We may be sure that they will both tell the truth about what they have seen over here, and more than that we do not ask. The rest we leave with good confidence to the judgement of the President, the Congress and the people of the United States. He said these words, but he did not believe them. Churchill had never met the President and had grave doubts about his judgement. He didn’t trust the Congress and he knew that the last thing on earth the American people desired was to get involved in Churchill’s bloody war. It now seems certain that the Government and people of the United States intend to supply us with all that is necessary for victory. All that is necessary for victory—short of actual help. They’d sent those ancient destroyers, of course, but demanded their thirty pieces of silver in return. Many of those much-vaunted destroyers had been useless, little more than rusting barges with clapped-out engines and rotting hulls—although someone had taken the trouble to ensure that the washrooms were equipped with towels and fresh soap. When would the Americans learn? You couldn’t fight a war with clean hands. In the last war the United States sent two million men across the Atlantic. But this is not a war of vast armies firing immense masses of shells at one another. We do not need the gallant armies which are forming throughout the American union. We do not need them this year, nor next year, nor any year that I can foresee. He swallowed his shame, telescope to unseeing eye, even as he uttered these profound deceits. He had no choice. Step by step, as he had explained to Randolph. He had to pretend to be at one with Roosevelt, to be alongside him, joined to him at the hip—otherwise he would never be able to lead him astray. In order to win the war, Hitler must destroy Great Britain. He may carry havoc into the Balkan States. He may tear great provinces out of Russia… Yes, an attack on Russia, that would happen some time, of that Churchill was certain. It was the nature of the Nazi beast, couldn’t restrain itself. But when? Would it be in time to save Britain? He may march to the Caspian; he may march to the gates of India. All this will avail him nothing. It may spread his curse more widely throughout Europe and Asia, but it will not avert his doom. With every month that passes the many proud and once happy countries he is now holding down by brute force and vile intrigue are learning to hate the Prussian yoke and the Nazi name as nothing has ever been hated so fiercely and so widely among men before. And all the time, masters of the sea and air, the British Empire—nay, in a certain sense the whole English-speaking world—will be on his track, bearing with them the swords of justice. ‘In a certain sense the whole English-speaking world’? In what sense, pray? Roosevelt and his Americans might pretend they were up to wielding the sword of justice, but the last place they intended to bury it was deep inside the guts of the German war machine. The other day President Roosevelt gave his opponent in the late presidential election a letter of introduction to me, and in it he wrote out a verse in his own handwriting from Longfellow, which he said applies to you people as it does to us. Here is the verse: Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! Roosevelt was sending poetry and bars of soap when what Churchill wanted was guns, more guns and bloody shells! But he must turn it, use the cascade of words to excite the passions and dull their wits, to avert their gaze so that he could launch his monstrous deception… What is the answer that I shall give, in your name, to this great man, the thrice-chosen head of a nationof a hundred and thirty millions? Here is the answer I shall give to President Roosevelt. Put your confidence in us. Give us your faith and your blessing and, under Providence, all will be well. We shall not fail or falter. We shall not weaken or tire. Neither the sudden shock of battle nor the long-drawn trials of vigilance and exertion will wear us down. He paused for the briefest moment. His voice lifted. Give us the tools—and we will finish the job! Oh, it was true Churchillian splendour, rhetoric that rang around the world. Yet he meant not a word. It was a promise he never had the smallest intention of keeping. Like blossom before the frost, it would vanish before the day was done. The bombardment of words was intended for one purpose only, to encourage the Americans to move forward an inch upon a slippery slope. After that, he would drag them the other three thousand miles. THREE (#ulink_e3a4fdf0-624c-52ab-97e3-614668ec7668) The blue waters of the Mediterranean had been turned into a shooting range, one in which the enemy had many more guns than the British, so the troopship conveying Randolph’s unit was required to take the long and laborious route to Egypt—round the tip of Africa and up through the Red Sea. The Glenroy was desperately overcrowded, and matters were made worse by the constant bickering that took place between the naval and army elements on board. In the view of No. 8 Commando, the captain was incompetent and soon was being referred to as ‘the bugger on the bridge’. The ship’s crew, in turn, regarded Randolph’s unit as ‘long-haired nancies’. It was partly a clash of class. The seamen were rough-handed workers—social underdogs, often from the slums—while many of those who formed No. 8 Commando had joined up straight from the bar of White’s Club in St James’s. Amongst these ill-mixed men who were crowded onto the ship, Randolph stood out most prominently of all, for no one could forget that he was somehow different, and if the point managed to slip anyone’s attention Randolph was always on hand to remind them. He and his closest friends were impossible, articulate, extravagant, impertinent, and took great pleasure in being gratuitously bloody rude. Long before the voyage was over, one of the crew had daubed a slogan on the lower deck: ‘Never in the history of humankind have so many been buggered about by so few.’ Randolph loved his father, and perhaps too much, almost to the point of destruction. He had been brought up at his father’s table and encouraged to be his own man, yet by insisting so stridently on his uniqueness Randolph turned himself into no more than a pale shadow. He would bicker and abuse, ignoring all criticism, just as he had learnt from Winston, but he had failed to capture the essential counterbalance, that elusive quality of grace. In any event, what can be intriguing from an old man is inexcusable from the young; what was seen as drive and determination in the father appeared as little more than bloody-mindedness in the son. And Randolph, like Winston, would never, never, never give in. He’d promised he would stop gambling but it was a long voyage—three weeks—cooped up on the Glenroy in the growing heat and with little else for distraction, apart from alcohol. Just like White’s Club. There was poker, roulette, chemin-de-fer every night—and for very high stakes—hell, they were probably going to die, so what did it matter? They would gamble on anything: the number of empty bottles in a barrel or the number of peas on a plate, double or nothing. In spite of being his father’s son, Randolph was a rotten gambler and a worse drunk. And when he was drunk he never knew when the time had come to walk away. In three weeks at sea, Randolph lost three thousand pounds. Enough to pay the rent on the family home until the baby was well into old age. A small fortune, even for someone who wasn’t already broke. Up until the baby had been born, Pamela had spent much of her time at Downing Street with Randolph’s parents. During air raids she had slept in the wine cellar, in a bunk below Winston—‘one Churchill inside me, and one Churchill above,’ as she told it. It was a relationship that drew her close to her father-in-law and at times even made Randolph’s sisters envious, for while their lives seemed always to be touched by chaos, Pamela grew fat with her child and became almost a good-luck charm for the old man as he fought to keep the bombers at bay and the invasion unlaunched. ‘You are what this war is all about,’ he once told her, placing his hand on her protruding stomach. The previous September, at the most crucial hour in the Battle of Britain, Churchill had driven with Pamela and Clemmie from Chequers to the RAF’s headquarters at Uxbridge in order to see for themselves the progress of the extraordinary conflict that was taking place above southern England. They had watched in the operations room as, one after one, squadrons of Spitfires and Hurricanes had been thrown into the sky against the onrushing enemy. There came a moment during that afternoon when not a single aircraft was left in reserve, when it would have taken just one more wave of bombers to have swept Britain aside. But it hadn’t come. Afterwards, as they had driven back towards Chequers, Churchill had seemed buried deep within his own thoughts, exhausted, his chin sunk low upon his chest. After a while he had stirred and turned to Pamela. ‘Do you keep a diary?’ ‘No,’ she had replied, startled. ‘You should. These are moments that, if we survive, we should allow no one to forget.’ Then he had fallen back into silence for several minutes, until the chin came up once more. ‘Anyway, if you don’t have a diary, what the hell will you live on when you get tired of Randolph?’ ‘I shan’t get tired of Randolph.’ ‘Everyone gets tired of Randolph,’ he had told her. But she hadn’t. Randolph was a handful, of course, garrulous, bibulous, fond of reading the histories of Macaulay to her in bed. When she had visited him at his commando training headquarters in Scotland, she’d been alarmed to discover that he had run up a hotel bill of gargantuan size, but he was unabashed. ‘Morituris bibendum,’ he had hollered, which he loosely translated as: ‘Those who are about to die deserve a bloody drink.’ Anyway, he told her they could afford the occasional drink, and a little light gambling, too. It was only amongst his close friends, he explained, and he won more than he ever lost. After the baby had been born he’d found them an old rectory in Hertfordshire, rented for a pittance with the help of his father’s name. It was their first home; Pamela loved it, and him. When he was there the walls echoed with excitement, and when he was away she felt nothing but draughts and missed him with a power that at times astonished her. During the day she would wander around the house in one of his old uniform jackets, smelling him, touching him, trying to imagine him beside her, and at night she would turn off the gas fire and go to bed early under a pile of blankets and with a copy of Macaulay beneath the pillow. She missed him all the more when she discovered she was probably pregnant again. Christmas at Chequers. She was young, not yet twenty-one, lacking in experience of things, but she wanted so much to show him that he had found the best wife, mother and housekeeper he ever could. Then his letter arrived. It offered an apology, of course, and a renewed vow of eternal self-denial which this time, he told her, he meant. But the self-denial Randolph required was, in truth, all on Pamela’s part. He sent her detailed instructions that she was to pay off his gambling debts by instalments of perhaps ten pounds a month, to a list of names that seemed endless. He didn’t suggest any way in which this sum might be raised. It was to be her problem—and exclusively her problem, for he forbade her to breathe a word of this to his father. He made it sound as though somehow it were all her fault. Three days after the letter arrived, the bleeding started, accompanied by excruciating pain that left her bent in two and crying for mercy. It was only with the greatest difficulty that she made it to the bathroom, bleeding profusely. She had been pregnant; she was no longer. And would never be again. Yet another American had appeared on Churchill’s doorstep. In the last few weeks the Prime Minister seemed to have done little but charge up and down the stairs of Downing Street to the tune of ‘Yankee Doodle’, but he didn’t complain. It was far better than being marched up and down Whitehall to the sound of a glockenspiel. John ‘Gil’ Winant had been sent to replace the excruciating Joe Kennedy as Ambassador to the Court of St James’s. Kennedy had been as crooked as a fish hook, but the new man was of altogether finer construction, the sort you could invite to dinner without having to count the spoons. He was a tall, brooding figure, painted with an expression of profound earnestness. Some thought he looked a lot like Abraham Lincoln, but whereas Lincoln was a wordsmith as glorious as any his country had produced, London had just discovered that Winant was a lamentable public speaker. He had delivered his first address in Britain, to a luncheon of the Pilgrims’ Club, an Anglo-American friendship society. The members of the audience assumed the sentiments in the speech were excellent, but no one could tell, for it had been impossible to make out a word he had said. They had hoped for someone of a different cut to the mean-mouthed outpourings of Kennedy, but this was going to the other extreme. Was America’s new voice to be no more than a whimper? Churchill had attended the lunch. As they were leaving the Savoy Hotel, he decided to take matters into his own hands and grabbed Winant’s arm. ‘Your Excellency, a fine speech.’ ‘Did you truly think so?’ ‘Worthy of many plaudits—and a little celebration. Do you have time for several whiskies?’ And before the ambassador could muster an audible answer, he was being led towards the Prime Minister’s car. ‘That is on two conditions, of course,’ Churchill continued. ‘The first is that we become the greatest of friends. As you know, I am half American, on my mother’s side. A Jerome from New York. I even lay claim to a little Iroquois Indian blood, at least an armful, I’d say.’ ‘Half American. But I suspect entirely English,’ Winant returned, smiling. He had a most attractive smile, his dark, deep-set eyes glowing with sincerity. His hair was unkempt, a little like a distracted schoolboy, while his suit was crumpled and sat awkwardly on his gaunt frame—as did his marriage, so rumour had it. Clearly he lacked a woman’s touch. ‘The second condition I insist upon is that you call me Winston, and I be permitted to call you Gil. No formality between us, no barriers. We are brothers. I want to like you very much indeed.’ That, as Churchill knew, might be no easy undertaking. Winant had a long career as a liberal activist and labour organizer that seemed to pit him against so many of the interests Churchill’s life had embraced. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Churchill had growled, ‘so long as he hates Hitler.’ They drove to the rear entrance of Downing Street, which nestled against the parade ground of Horse Guards. There were many signs of recent bomb damage—hurriedly filled holes, empty windows, scarred buildings, blasted trees in the park. A long section of the garden wall at the back of Downing Street had been toppled, leaving bricks lying in forlorn piles. A gang of workmen was carrying out repairs. As soon as his car had stopped, Churchill sprang from his seat and began clambering over broken bricks and through piles of sand until he was in the midst of the workers. He seemed not to notice that he was standing in a puddle of cement. ‘My dear Gil, let me introduce you to the men who are the backbone of the British Empire. The bricklayers!’ He thrust his stick at one of the men in exchange for a trowel, and then began loading cement and bricks upon the new wall, eyeing their line, tapping them to a level, and all the while puffing great clouds of smoke from his cigar as he chatted in great animation to the workers. They gathered closely around him, laughing at his jests, shouting their encouragement, and taking care to keep him supplied with fresh bricks. ‘You see, Gil, I, too, am a bricklayer, a member of the Amalgamated Union of Building Trade Workers. And proud as punch of it. Lady Astor, one of your American compatriots, a woman with a notoriously sharp tongue, once told me that I was as common as muck. I was able to tell her that she was entirely wrong, that I was not as common as muck—but as common as brick. And I had a trade union membership card to prove it.’ He was playing them like an audience at a music hall. ‘Ah, I am forgetting my manners,’ he said when at last he stepped back. ‘I must introduce you men to my very great friend, Mr Gil Winant. He is the new American Ambassador, which makes him your great friend, too.’ ‘Last one wasn’t, was he?’ a voice sounded from the back of the huddle. ‘On the contrary, I was very much attached to him,’ Churchill said, smiling. ‘Like my appendix.’ ‘But you ’ad that cut out years ago,’ the voice came back, to general laughter. ‘And you, sir, will get me into a great deal of hot water making baseless accusations like that,’ Churchill replied, grinning broadly. They cheered him as he stepped into his garden through the hole in the wall. He turned to wave his stick at them. ‘Londoners—are we downhearted?’ ‘No!’ they cried as one. It was a piece of theatre, typical Churchill, the sort of thing he’d made sure his other visitors like Hopkins and Willkie had witnessed. Reality wasn’t as simple as that, of course. For every Londoner who could still summon up the spirit of defiance, there were those who were gradually weakening, being ground down by yet another winter of war. In his heart, Churchill knew they would not go on—couldn’t go on—through another winter unless somehow he could find new hope to sustain them. But he couldn’t even feed them properly. The shipping losses in the Atlantic were enormous and the prospect of starvation still hovered over every meal. He had to give them hope, some taste of victory, not an endless diet of setback and evacuation. Every week brought a new nightmare and another battlefield. So far the Balkans had remained undisturbed, but it was about to be turned into a slaughterhouse. Hundreds of thousands of German troops were massing to swallow up Yugoslavia and Greece, taking advantage of feuding local leaders who, rather than taking on the Wehrmacht, seemed more intent on fighting each other—‘Cvetkovic, Markovic, Simovic, Subotic and every other damned sonofabitch,’ as Churchill had complained in frustration. Meanwhile a new commander had arrived to breathe fresh life into the German campaign in the North African deserts. Someone called Rommel. And the Japanese, that unfathomable, unknowable race on the far side of the world—what in damnation were they planning? His concerns pursued him everywhere, through his days, through his dreams, no matter what he pretended to the bricklayers. By the time he had crossed the garden and reached the back door of Downing Street, they were weighing heavily on his heart once more. He threw open the door and kicked off his shoes. ‘Sawyers! Where are you, man?’ he shouted. ‘Stop hiding and help. Some idiot has poured cement all over my shoes.’ They sat in a small sitting room that was cold and bleak. The curtains were dusty, the windows taped over, some of them cracked, but Churchill still preferred to spend his daylight hours here in 10 Downing Street than entombed in the underground bunker at the nearby Annexe. It was a small reminder of how things used to be. The American was beginning to warm up and Sawyers hovered attentively, ready to refill his glass. Shy and uncertain as Winant sometimes looked, he was no fool. He had a long and distinguished public career behind him, much of it in New Hampshire, where he had been elected governor three times. They called it the Granite State; evidently they liked the quiet touch. ‘I welcome you to London, Gil, with all my heart. It’s a pity that the medical condition of the President makes it so difficult for him to travel, but that makes your position here of even greater significance. I don’t think it an exaggeration to say that a whole world might depend upon it. It’s one of my great sorrows that I have not yet met Mr Roosevelt, but, in you, I know I have a friend who will bring us together in thought as well as deed. You must be my mirror into his mind.’ The words struck Winant as strange because, of course, Churchill had met Roosevelt, many years before. The old man seemed to have forgotten, but Roosevelt hadn’t. It had been 1918, at an official dinner in London. The occasion hadn’t been an unqualified success; Churchill had been both voluble and a little vulgar, and when Roosevelt returned from the dinner he told his colleagues that Churchill was nothing less than ‘a stinker’. It was a story that Joe Kennedy had paddled all around Washington, and so keenly that Winant was surprised the old man hadn’t been reminded of it. But then, given the nature of the story, it was perhaps no surprise at all. ‘I have very clear instructions, Prime Minister—forgive me: Winston,’ the ambassador said as the valet poured more whisky. ‘The President has instructed me to tell you that we shall do everything within our power to help you win this war.’ ‘That is more than I had dared hope—’ ‘Short of declaring war ourselves, of course.’ ‘Ah.’ Churchill thrust his own glass towards Sawyers. ‘The Lend-Lease Bill will be through Congress in a few days; you know the President’s set to sign it. Soon we’ll be able to send you all those tools you asked for to finish the job.’ The ambassador had intended the words as encouragement, but for a moment Churchill’s expression suggested he’d just smashed his finger with a hammer. ‘You know, Winston, your broadcast came as a profound relief to many Americans. Ridiculous, I know, but there are still those who suspect you of wanting to find some means of getting us involved in another European shooting match.’ A gentle warning shot across the bow. There were many in the United States who still gave kitchen space to tittle-tattle that Churchill was bent on repeating the history of the last war, when a reluctant America had been dragged into the conflict three years after it had started as a result of the sinking of a number of ships by U-boats. The most notable loss had been the passenger ship Lusitania. More than a thousand souls had gone down with her, many of them American, and hundreds of thousands were to follow. Some blamed Churchill personally for this, suggesting he’d as good as arranged the U-boat attack in order to shame the United States out of its isolation. Many Americans still sat round their fires talking of the untrustworthy English. Churchill stirred uneasily, eager to move on. ‘What of the Far East, Gil? It has been occupying my mind. We cannot rest content while Japan conducts a campaign of slaughter and genocide that is every bit the equal in savagery to Hitler’s.’ ‘But in China.’ ‘Such savagery never knows its bounds. It will not confine itself to China. Where will it turn to next? To French Indo-China? To the Dutch East Indies? To our own colonies of Hong Kong and Singapore, even India? There are vast riches waiting for them there.’ ‘Which is why, presumably, they are already colonies. And why the European powers would fight once more to retain them.’ Winant seemed so much more composed face to face than in front of an audience. And he knew his master’s mind. Churchill decided he would be a most effective ambassador, and was not a man he should underestimate. ‘I must tell you, Gil, in all seriousness, what I have written to the President.’ Churchill turned to his glass, sipping, swirling, as though trying to wash away some foul taste, before staring at the American. ‘I told Mr Roosevelt that if the Japanese were to attack our Far Eastern possessions, we would not have the military capability to resist them. No matter what I might be forced to say in public to shore up the general morale, you and your President must be under no illusion. On our own, we could not win such a war.’ On their own, the British could not win…Little wonder, Winant thought, that the old man was driven to drink. ‘That’s why I have asked the President if he will send some part of the US Pacific Fleet to Singapore,’ Churchill continued. ‘As a sign that an attack on British possessions will not be tolerated. No words, no great declaration, no threats, just a symbolic gesture that even the Japanese will understand. A few American ships in Singapore could prevent the outbreak of the most terrifying tempest across the whole of the Far East.’ ‘I’m afraid the President can’t agree to that, Winston,’ Winant said quietly, as though the softness of his voice might in some way diminish the force he knew his words would have on Churchill. ‘But…’ For the briefest of moments Churchill paused, buried beneath the weight of his disappointment. ‘My dear Gil, I’m not talking of a vast armada, only a few ships, even a couple of rust buckets would do, so long as they fly the Stars and Stripes…’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘It could prevent catastrophe—’ ‘Our commitment is to Britain, not to its colonies. I think Mr Roosevelt would argue—and with considerable force—that it’s not the job of the United States to steam around the world shoring up other people’s empires. We don’t like empire, no matter whose flag it flies.’ That was Roosevelt speaking. The President came from a long line of radicals and revolutionaries; he loathed all empires and the British Empire as much as any—a kingdom of pigsticking and polo, he’d been heard to call it. There was no way he was going to shed American blood for that. Churchill couldn’t afford to be diverted. ‘But if the Japanese were to control the whole of the Far East they would become the most mighty power in the Pacific. Surely America could not tolerate that?’ ‘The Pacific is even wider than the Atlantic, Winston—and one hell of a long way from the Hudson.’ ‘In his State of the Union Address only a few weeks ago your President spoke of his ambition to lead the world from fear.’ ‘And you know what he also said to me, Winston? That the most terrifying thing in the world is to be a leader who looks over his shoulder and finds no one there.’ Winant leant forward from his armchair, as though trying to close the distance between them. ‘He hears you, Winston. But he also has to listen to the American people who are suspicious of everything to do with this war. You know, all the while Congress has been debating Lend-Lease, women have been marching outside carrying banners accusing the President of wanting to murder their sons. That hurt him, down deep. They even hanged his effigy. There’s a lot of steam behind the no-war protests, Winston, they don’t want any more American boys to die in Europe or anywhere else. Their voices are powerful. And Mr Roosevelt has had to listen.’ ‘Public opinion can be a most demanding mistress.’ He did not mean it kindly. And so they continued, the Englishman and the American, confronting each other, testing each other’s ideas, trying to find common ground but discovering their ambitions were as far apart as the continents from which they came. Churchill rose to his feet, his passion too great to remain seated, and he stood by the pale light of the window, his hand on his brow. It was what he had feared. Roosevelt wouldn’t move, not even an inch. He looked through the window and saw only disaster. If war broke out in the Far East, Britain would lose it, and the shockwaves of defeat would quite overturn Britain’s little boat. It would be the end, but he dare not admit it. ‘What will you do?’ Winant asked. ‘KBO, I suppose,’ Churchill muttered, his jaw jutting forward. ‘Just KBO.’ Winant was taken aback, not knowing what to do or say and having no idea what the old man was talking about. The moment was broken by the arrival in the room of a young woman. It was Sarah, Churchill’s daughter, who had been visiting her mother. Winant rose, looking strangely like a schoolboy once more, the composure of recent moments vanished as Churchill made the introduction. She was tall, elegant, with a broad, open forehead and Churchill’s blue eyes. ‘Forgive the interruption, Papa,’ she said, kissing his cheek, ‘I’ve come to say goodbye. May I see you at the weekend?’ ‘You shall!’ he said, dragging himself back from his broken dreams. ‘And Mr Winant here, too.’ He turned to the American. ‘Gil, you will be our guest at Chequers. You are one of the family now.’ Winant stumbled in reply, wondering if he were being asked merely out of politeness and not wishing to intrude. Sarah rescued him, reaching out to touch his sleeve. ‘Papa won’t take no for an answer,’ she told him. ‘He never does.’ To Winant she seemed delicate, a little fragile, and desperately appealing. And then she was gone. Sawyers was hovering at the door. Behind him a pair of generals and an air vice-marshal were impatiently waiting their turn. ‘Time for me to go, too,’ Winant said. ‘You’ve work to do. A war to wage.’ Churchill stood and extended his hand. ‘I’m grateful for your candour, Gil. I know that’s what the President wants, it’s also what I want. No barriers between us, to hell with the diplomatic niceties. I pray we shall always be as straight with each other as brothers.’ Sawyers escorted the ambassador out. On the way to the door he gave the American a potted history of the old house. He also pointed to some of the features that had been added more recently—reception rooms that were badly damaged, windows broken and blocked up, great holes in the ancient plaster on the ceiling. ‘In all honesty, Your Excellence, Number Ten’s not exactly what yer might call a substantial house. George Downing was a bit of a bad ’un, like. Built the street wi’out foundations.’ ‘What happened to him?’ ‘I believe he went to America, zur,’ the valet replied, leading him through the hallway. As the great black door opened, it revealed a day growing dark and starting to spit with rain. Sawyers produced the American’s coat and hat, both of which had been given a stiff brushing. ‘Tell me, Sawyers, what does “KBO” mean?’ the ambassador asked as Sawyers helped him shrug into his coat. ‘Begging your pardon?’ ‘“KBO.” He kept muttering it.’ ‘Ah, it’s a military phrase, zur. From trenches in last war.’ ‘Meaning?’ ‘“Keep Buggering On.”’ ‘Yes, of course it does,’ the American said, smiling. ‘You must find your job fascinating, Sawyers.’ ‘I do find it has its moments, zur.’ ‘An important job, too.’ ‘Nowt special.’ ‘But you are with him from morning to night. You see everyone and everything, on the way in and on the way out. I guess that makes you more important than the Lord Chief Justice and the Minister of War put together. And much better informed.’ ‘Sadly not.’ ‘Oh, and why is that?’ ‘’Cos I’m by way of being too pig ignorant to understand or remember owt that’s said, zur.’ Winant looked nonplussed. ‘I’m quoting Mr Churchill, Your Excellence. Word fer word.’ Winant’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘We’re looking forward to seeing you at Chequers at weekend, zur,’ the valet continued as the ambassador stood on the doorstep, inspecting the weather. ‘But you’ll find it very English. Might I suggest that you put aside a particularly warm pair o’ pyjamas for the occasion? The central heating in’t up to what most American gentlemen seem to expect. I’m sure if Mr Roosevelt sends us any more American guests, we’ll have to ask him to send a new boiler along wi’ ’em.’ The rain was growing heavier. The American pulled up his collar and scoured the sky. ‘Well, Sawyers, we’ll see what we can do. Tanks, battleships, bombers—and one new boiler. Lend-Lease at your service. Which reminds me, you will be getting another American soon, the man who’s coming to run the whole Lend-Lease show. Harriman. Averell Harriman’s his name.’ ‘We look forward to meeting the gentleman. I’m sure he’ll be given a right warm welcome by Mr Churchill and the entire family. Night, Your Excellence.’ As the door closed behind him the ambassador, hat clamped firmly to his head, disappeared into the rapidly fading light. As he hurried through the drizzle, he wondered if Hitler knew that Downing Street appeared to be defended by nothing more than one unarmed policeman and an uppity servant. She found him seated in an armchair by the fire in the Hawtrey Room, with Nelson asleep on his lap. It was late, almost midnight. She hadn’t wanted to disturb him, but she knew of no one else who might understand, no one else who knew Randolph well enough—his recklessness, his passions, his appetites and ego, his moments as a little boy lost, all of which she had been able to tolerate and even welcome, until they had ended up smothering her in debt and left her bleeding on a bathroom floor. He never turned her away, not like he did so many of the others. She seemed to occupy a special part in his world—so did Randolph, of course, but Pamela didn’t shout at him. And while his own elder daughters seemed to have inherited the ‘Black Dog’ of darkness that so often pursued him, Pamela was fun. Uninhibited. Almost a talisman. It wasn’t simply marriage and the baby, but a link that stretched back through the mists of time. Pamela had been born in the manor house at Minterne Magna in Dorset, which three centuries earlier had belonged to the Churchill family. The first Sir Winston Churchill had been born and was buried there. Links that bound them together from long ago. He was studying the contents of a buff-coloured box. It was his box of secrets, in which Menzies and his intelligence men sent him their most sensitive items—his ‘golden eggs’, as he called them. She saw it and her heart sank. The papers came first. This was the wrong moment. He looked up. She could see the rime of exhaustion clinging to his eyes before he returned to staring into the fire. ‘This morning, we shot a German spy,’ he said, very softly. ‘Parachuted in. Fell badly. The constabulary picked him up in less than three hours. And in less than three months we sat him in a chair, bound his arms and then his eyes, and proceeded to snuff out his life.’ She was surprised to see tears glinting in the firelight. ‘He was born in the same year as Randolph.’ ‘He was a spy, Papa.’ ‘He was a brave young man.’ ‘A German. An enemy.’ ‘And shall we shoot them all?’ He began stroking Nelson, staring into the fire. ‘When will it cease, Pamela? When shall we be able to return to the lives we once knew?’ ‘Only when we have won.’ ‘And, I fear, not even then.’ He seemed to be in pain. For many moments he sat silently, hurting, his mind elsewhere, seeking comfort from the cat. ‘Every night, before I fall asleep, I place myself before a court martial,’ he began again. ‘I force myself to stand trial, accuse myself of neglect. Have I done my duty? Have I done enough? Did all those men who died that day at my order give up their lives for sufficient reason, or did they die for nothing more than vanity?’ ‘You know no man could do more.’ Churchill tapped the buff-coloured box. ‘Goebbels made a speech the other week. About me. I’ve just been reading it. Ever since Gallipoli, he said, Winston Churchill has spent a life wading through streams of English blood, defending a lifestyle that has outlived its time.’ ‘He’s a liar. The blood has been spilled by Germans, not by you.’ ‘But perhaps he has a point, you see.’ He held out his hand, summoning her close. She knelt at his feet. ‘The world in which I grew up and through which I have travelled all my life has outlived its time. My world is a world of Empire and Union Jacks, where the scarlet coat of the British soldier has stood proud and firm in every corner of the globe. Yet now…No matter what the outcome of this war, Pamela, that world is lost. The days of an atlas splashed in red, of emperors and adventure, of natives and majestic nabobs, they are all gone. Of another time.’ ‘I don’t understand, Papa.’ ‘After this war is over, whoever holds the reins of authority, it will not be Britain. We are too small, too content, perhaps even too kind. You need an edge of ruthlessness to rule. So whose creed shall we find in the ascendant? Hitler and his fascism? Commissar Stalin and his Bolshevist crusade? Or America, perhaps, which worships before the altar of Mammon? Which would you choose, Pamela?’ ‘Why, America,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Better America, a thousand times better. Even though at times they totter around like blind men, especially when they set foot in other parts of the world. They don’t understand that all men are not as they are. And even when they stumble over the truth, they pick themselves up and carry on as if nothing has happened.’ ‘But you have praised their generosity…’ ‘Sometimes they are like gangsters.’ ‘They have given us destroyers, Lend-Lease…’ ‘In return for which they have taken all our gold and dollar reserves, demanded we give them military bases in every corner of the globe, and now their negotiators have started talking about handing over our art treasures and ancient manuscripts.’ His chin fell to his chest. ‘The bonfire of glories that once was the British Empire belongs to an age that has passed. That wretched man Goebbels was right. And so, in his way, was Randolph.’ ‘Randolph?’ ‘When Mr Roosevelt announced Lend-Lease, he likened it to lending a neighbour a hose pipe when his house catches on fire. You don’t quibble about its cost, so long as it’s returned. But Randolph says it’s more like offering a piece of used chewing gum, never expecting it to be returned.’ ‘You act so warmly towards all the Americans…’ ‘They are the New World, the young world. And I trust them as much as I would any seven-year-old. So we will douse them in flattery and humbuggery, and never give up hope that our American friends will find within themselves the will to fight the right war. But we can no longer rely on that.’ ‘So what will you do?’ ‘Do?’ For a moment he seemed to be searching for an answer in the flames. ‘I shall do whatever it takes. I gave Randolph my word. So tonight, and every night, as I stand before my court martial, I shall have to show that I have done something to ensure that Mr Roosevelt has pitched his tent a little nearer the sound of gunfire.’ She stroked his balding head, trying to bring him comfort, as though he were a young child. ‘What can I do, Papa?’ His eyes found her. ‘Do what only you can do, Pamela. Give me grandchildren. Give our family and our world a future. Make this all worthwhile.’ He kissed her hand. ‘What more can an old man ask?’ She had been right. This was not the time. She screamed, but only inside. He couldn’t know, didn’t deserve to be showered in the wretchedness that was welling up inside her. That would come later, when she was in bed, alone. He had so many other lives to care for; she would have to look after her own. She left him staring into the embers of the dying fire. FOUR (#ulink_dd722e0a-8330-5d52-b2b3-a15ba06d088d) Spring. New life. Daffodils. Crocus. Blossom. Warmer days. Death. The bombers were back. The intermittent raids of winter had given way to a renewed onslaught that pounded London night after night. Queues. Britain’s way to win the war. Line after line of women waiting patiently for whatever was left. Hour after hour, without knowing what might be there when at last they came to the head of the queue, ration book in hand, coins in purse or pocket. The Ministry of Food had just announced five exhilarating new ways of serving potato—wartime ‘champ’, hot potato salad, potato pastry, potato suet crust. ‘And save those orange rinds,’ the official advertisement insisted. ‘Grate your orange peel and mix a little with mashed potatoes. The potatoes will turn an exciting pink colour!’ But would still be mashed potatoes. Yet not everyone dined on pink mash. It was a foodstuff entirely unknown to Lady Emerald St John. In truth, her name was not Emerald—she had been born a Maud, but she thought it common. She was not a ‘proper’ lady, inasmuch as she was American and had married into the title, although she had parted from her husband many years previously, relieving him of not only his marital obligations but also a substantial chunk of his fortune. And, above all, Emerald was no saint. It was why people flocked to her dinner parties, always assured of entertainment, excitement, intrigue—and a little wickedness. Not sexual wickedness, Emerald had worn herself out on three husbands and was past most of that, but as the folds about her face had fallen to wrinkles, she compensated with a tongue that had developed the snagging capacity of a billhook. Sitting at one of her tables was like playing roulette with one’s reputation. Someone would always walk away a little poorer. Pamela arrived late, just as the others were preparing to sit down. The introductions were hurried and she wasn’t concentrating; she’d squeezed in a couple of drinks on the way. But there was a Japanese gentleman, whom people addressed as ‘Your Excellency’, identifying him as the ambassador, Mamoru Shigemitsu. He seemed lost in conversation with his American counterpart, Winant, whom she recognized, and another man whom she did not, American by the cut of his clothes, tall, middle-aged, yet still athletic in build. The party was completed by two parliamentarians and their wives, a Free French naval officer and two young French women, but all eyes seemed to be on Shigemitsu. The Japanese was small in physique and most earnest in his expression, polite, but persistent, and very defensive. That was no surprise. He had arrived at the Court of St James’s three years earlier, and with every passing season his task had grown more difficult. Japan was at war with China. It was not a popular war. The newspapers were filled with countless headlines about Japanese brutality, accompanied by disgracefully provocative photographs. Not that the British could tell the difference between a Chinese or Japanese, of course. They even delighted in their ignorance. As much as Shigemitsu tried to reassure his audiences that Japan had no intention of attacking British possessions, not a soul believed him. Yet still he did his best. ‘Japanese believe in Hakko-Ichiu,’ he said. ‘How fascinating, Your Excellency,’ the diminutive Lady St John purred across a forkful of fish. ‘What exactly does it mean?’ ‘It means “all the world one family”. At peace.’ ‘How beautiful. It’s a religious idea, is it? That when we’ve all finished being beastly to each other on this earth, we go to the same heaven?’ ‘No, no,’ Shigemitsu protested. ‘Peace on this earth. All one family. On this earth.’ ‘Oh, I see. I’m so relieved. There are so many rumours that Japan wants to attack us in the Far East. Tell me, Your Excellency, that’s not going to happen, is it?’ ‘Japanese wish British people nothing but harmony,’ the Japanese responded, picking over his words as though he had a mouthful of bones. ‘And the Chinese?’ Shigemitsu swallowed his trout unchewed. He examined his plate, not wishing to catch Lady St John’s eye for fear of betraying his annoyance. Her bluntness was ill-mannered; was she female and stupid, or simply Western and therefore incorrigibly rude? ‘Our only wish is to create what we call a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.’ ‘Ah, so that’s what you are doing in China. Trying to make them all prosperous. Now I understand.’ The ambassador laid down his knife and fork. Of course she didn’t understand, and the silly woman was probably incapable of doing so, but it was his duty to try to bring her to some form of awareness. ‘The European powers—French, Dutch, British—have many colonies in Asia. Control all oil and other raw materials. We consider the position…unbalanced.’ He gave a little bow, as if to indicate that he was entirely satisfied with his selection of the word. ‘Japan wants only similar influence in our own continent. Access to raw materials in Asia like Britain—even America.’ He made it sound so reasonable, but he had unwittingly opened up a new flank. The unknown American took it as an invitation to join in. ‘And you make war in order to get them,’ he stated. The ambassador’s colour darkened. ‘We do not want war. War would not continue if Britain and America did not keep sending weapons to China along the Burma Road. My government believes that is very unfriendly act.’ ‘More than ten million dead Chinese since the war started four years ago, most of them civilians. Three hundred thousand killed in Nanking in a single winter. If you want to talk about unfriendly acts, maybe we should start with that.’ ‘Perhaps, sir, and begging your pardon’—he gave another little bow—‘you are not aware of the full facts of war.’ ‘I guess you’re right, Mr Ambassador. I don’t know enough about war. But since I arrived in London a few days ago, I’m beginning to catch on fast.’ ‘Perhaps, sir, you will permit me to suggest that you discuss the matter with your European friends, who have been fighting colonial wars for hundreds of years. They might be able to hasten your understanding.’ There was another little bob, like a karate chop. ‘Mr Ambassador,’ the American said, refusing to use the honorific title of ‘Excellency’, ‘Americans hate all colonial wars. Which is why we insist on the right to continue sending supplies to China.’ ‘You will forgive me, sir, if I see American history in a slightly different colour. I believe—I ask you to correct me if this is not true—that your country purchased the entire territory of Louisiana from the French.’ ‘Not the same thing at all. Louisiana isn’t a colony, it was a natural extension of the United States.’ ‘A very understandable argument, sir. And it was certainly closer to the United States than Alaska, which I believe you purchased later.’ ‘The territory of Alaska was practically empty. Full of nothing but fish and ice. I think there were maybe four hundred Russians living there.’ ‘Unlike the islands of the Philippines, which you fought for. Forty years ago. You will please forgive me if that is an inconvenient or inaccurate fact. Or the islands of Hawaii. I believe the United States annexed them at about the same time.’ Damn, but he was good. Lady St John beamed. She hadn’t had this much fun since she had plied the then-German Ambassador, von Ribbentrop, with his own champagne and asked him to expound upon his feelings about Jews. ‘I will grant you, Mr Ambassador, that history has a stubborn streak,’ the American responded. ‘It doesn’t form itself into convenient straight lines. And the United States, like all nations, has a history that allows for questioning and criticism.’ The American seemed to be conceding, perhaps aware that the Japanese was preparing to chase him fully around the globe via Guam, Puerto Rico, Cuba and several other colonial contradictions. ‘But I am not concerned with history, sir. I am talking about today. And tomorrow. And the slaughter of tens of millions of innocent civilians. Whatever the cause, whatever the grievance, whatever the injustice for which redemption is sought, nothing can support such a cost.’ ‘It is most unfortunate that today warfare carries with it such a terrible price.’ ‘Which is why the United States has declared it will never become a combatant in this one.’ ‘It is a most happy situation for your United States,’ the ambassador said with a smile of steel, ‘that, unlike every other nation represented around this table, you have not become involved in war. For my part, I pray most earnestly that your good fortune will continue, and that you will remain free from the curse of war.’ ‘Hell, we don’t pick fights, Mr Ambassador. We finish ’em.’ It was, in Lady St John’s view, a most glorious cockfight, but it had gone far enough, for the moment. There were three other courses to get through; something had to be kept in reserve. ‘Would you like some more, Your Excellency? Or have you had enough?’ ‘More than enough. Thank you, Lady St John.’ He bowed, which allowed him to break eye contact with the American. ‘I don’t know much about English manners, Lady St John, but if it’s not being impolite, I’d love some more,’ the American said, without waiting to be asked. He’d be damned before he followed Shigemitsu. ‘It’s what the workers on my railroad would call “damned fine chow”.’ He paused only momentarily. ‘I guess that’s the Chinese influence, eh?’ And suddenly the table was alight with a multitude of different conversations. Pamela, who had been as transfixed as Emerald at the outpouring of male hormones, was seated between the American and his ambassador. They were both tall and dark, middle-aged, with fine eyes, but there the resemblance finished. Winant was uncombed, uncertain and largely inaudible at such occasions, whereas the other man most evidently was not. And he seemed to own a railway. She placed a hand gently on his sleeve. ‘Forgive me, but I didn’t catch your name.’ ‘It’s Averell Harriman.’ He smiled, a little stiffly. He gazed down at her; she knew he was struggling to keep his eyes steady. It was her dress. She’d lost almost all the weight she had gained while pregnant, but a couple of additional inches had clung to her breasts and, in this dress, they showed. ‘I’m Pamela Churchill.’ ‘I know you are. I’ve already met your father-in-law. He says we must all become good friends.’ ‘I hope you’re going to do everything he tells you.’ Harriman laughed. ‘That’s pretty much my job description. I’ve been put in charge of the Lend-Lease operation. The President has told me to come over here and give you everything you want.’ ‘Like Santa Claus.’ ‘Something like that.’ ‘In which case, I can promise you, we shall become very good friends indeed.’ And suddenly there was laughter around the table, except from Shigemitsu. Later, he was the first to leave. Lady St John led him to the door. ‘Your Excellency, it’s been such a pleasure having you with us. And particularly for me. May I let you in on a little secret? It’s wonderful to be with guests of—how shall I put this?—of a similar stature. We little people should stick together, don’t you think?’ He gave a stiff bow, and left. He did not think he would ever return. In reasonably rapid succession, the hallways of Chequers echoed to the sound of bath waters parting, heavy male footsteps, a female scream and the crashing of a tray laden with crockery. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Churchill said, making puddles on the hallway carpet and trying to rearrange his towel with more discretion. ‘H?loise. I am H?loise,’ the young woman responded in a heavy accent, her eyes filled with horror. ‘And what the hell are you?’ ‘I am the new maid.’ She was struggling to avert her eyes. ‘New maid. What new bloody maid?’ ‘The new maid we agreed on, Mr Churchill.’ It was Sawyers, who had appeared as if on wings in response to the sounds of mayhem. ‘I told you we didn’t need one. Look at the mess she’s made.’ ‘Well, if it’s to be a race to see who can ruin rug first, I suspect you’re in wi’ a pretty good chance yerself, zur,’ the valet replied, indicating the sodden carpet. ‘Suppose I’d better do introductions. This is H?loise. Cousin to Mrs Landemare’s husband. From Marseilles,’—his accent and lisp made a mockery of the name—‘before joining us here. And a very dangerous escape it were, too, so cook’s been telling me.’ The girl gave a nervous bob. ‘And this,’ Sawyers added, turning and raising his eyebrow as though in disbelief, ‘is the Prime Minister.’ ‘Je suis Churchill,’ the Prime Minister growled in his execrable accent. ‘I don’t like new faces. And I don’t like people who go round dropping trays and making a racket. If you’re going to make a habit of it, you’d better stay out of my way downstairs.’ H?loise promptly burst into tears and fled. Churchill was left feeling very damp and a trifle silly. ‘And tell her I prefer my eggs scrambled,’ he said, stepping round the mess on the floor. It was the twentieth of March. Pamela’s twenty-first birthday. She spent it without any form of communication from Randolph. She sat in the rented rectory that had meant so much to her, yet which now stared back at her like a stranger. Once it had seemed to catch every shaft of sunlight, but now it collected only draughts and dust. She thought of the many nights she had burrowed beneath the blankets, hugging a favourite bear and pretending it was Randy creeping into the bedroom rather than several degrees of frost, but those days were gone. She was twenty-one. Her first day as a legal adult. Old enough to vote. And utterly miserable. She ate her dinner alone in the kitchen, growing a little drunk as she dismantled one of Randolph’s prize bottles of vintage champagne. It was part of a consignment he’d been given as a wedding present by one of his chums from White’s. As she drank from a glass of the finest crystal, his photograph stared at her in reproach from its ornate silver frame—another present. She was surrounded by luxury in a house where even the mice could no longer afford to eat. She was by upbringing a straightforward country girl, not simple, but not sophisticated either, and when Randolph had introduced her to a new life she hadn’t at first entirely understood its rules. Only now was she beginning to realize that Randolph didn’t understand them, either. Idiot. He was still staring from his silver frame. Defiantly she raised her glass to him and uttered something very rude. She spent another night shivering beneath her blankets, banging her head on bloody Macaulay, before she made up her mind. They had a mountain of wedding presents—crystal decanters, a canteen of exquisite cutlery, an antique carriage clock, fine wines, Lalique figurines, modern pearls and pieces of ancient porcelain, every kind of indulgent trinket that had been given to them by their rich friends—or, more accurately, the rich friends of Randolph’s father. She put everything up for auction. Within two weeks they were gone, every last bit and bauble, including her jewellery and his watches. A month later, so was the rectory, rented out for three times the amount they were paying for it. Arrangements were made for the baby, who was provided with a nursery and nanny at Cherkley, the country home of his wealthy godfather, Lord Beaverbrook, which in turn gave Pamela the freedom to ‘do her bit’ and take a job in the Ministry of Supply. It also enabled her to take a top-floor room at the Dorchester Hotel. Now the Dorchester, at first sight, might have seemed an unconventional choice for a woman trying desperately to save herself from financial delinquency, but it had some surprising advantages. Many of the most powerful people in London had moved into the hotel for the duration, and Pamela knew that while she was there she would never have to pay for another meal. It also happened to be one of the safest locations in London—reinforced with steel and with a deep basement. Above all else, it was close to her father-in-law. Pamela was, after all, a Churchill, and there were benefits to be had from being related to the most powerful man in the land. One of these benefits was the substantial discount that the Dorchester offered her on their standard charges. As she told her incredulous friends, she was so hard up she couldn’t possibly afford to live anywhere else. There were many visitors that Easter weekend—not just family but generals, aides, the Australian Prime Minister, the Americans. It was not a season of peace. The strain had been growing for weeks. Cold winds blew from every corner of the globe and Churchill, as always impatient, interfered in everything. He grew impatient with others, showed anger at delays and was left shouting vainly at the gods who seemed to have turned their back on him. Every day he would examine the charts that displayed the progress of the convoys as they fought their way across the Atlantic, hurling questions at his Admiralty staff, demanding instant answers, grasping at hope. He followed not only the fate of the convoys but even individual cargoes, insisting that the machine guns, aircraft engines and fourteen million cartridges being carried from America by the City of Calcutta be unloaded on the west coast. ‘Why in blazes do they insist on running the additional risk of taking them round to the east coast?’ he demanded. ‘Are they incompetent, or simply mad?’ Everywhere the news was bad. Bulgaria had joined the Axis, there were fears that Spain would follow. Yugoslavia stood defiant, but it would not be for long. Germany fell upon her and two days of bombing killed more than seventeen thousand civilians in the capital city, Belgrade. Everyone knew that Greece would be next. Churchill ordered British troops to be moved from Egypt to help in the defence of Greece, much to the open displeasure of his generals, but Churchill insisted. Yet even as the troops prepared to move, Rommel began a new advance in North Africa and threw the plans into chaos. The British began to retreat, but they couldn’t even manage that properly. The new trucks and tanks that had been sent to the desert kept breaking down in the sand. Churchill once again lost his temper, demanding to know whether the War Office wanted him to go and fix the bloody machines himself. ‘The Germans move forward and discover our men playing at sandcastles!’ he spat contemptuously. ‘They’ve taken two thousand British prisoners. We’ll just have to find comfort in the fact that they’ve taken three of our bloody generals as well.’ Further east, Britain’s supply problems grew with a pro-Nazi coup in oil-rich Iraq. ‘It is just as happened in the last war,’ Churchill sighed. ‘We liberate them, then they turn on us.’ ‘Ungrateful Arab swine,’ one aide said, but Churchill turned on him. ‘Only a fool expects gratitude in the desert!’ Not for one moment did the light of battle leave his eyes, but it seemed to be devouring him, burning him out. At every point on the map there were new wounds. Britain was bleeding to death. He saw it for himself. On Good Friday he had left for a tour of the West Country in the company of the American Ambassador. They arrived in Bristol not long after the Luftwaffe had left. Churchill had walked through streets that were no longer recognizable, had watched as inhabitants with bewildered faces emerged from their hidey-holes to find their world destroyed, had spent all morning outside without once seeing the sun through the clouds of swirling smoke. The Mayor of Bristol, soot streaked upon his face, had likened his city to ancient Rome. And so it was. Ruins. In one corner of the city they stumbled across the remnants of a wall that had once been a row of houses. On it someone had scribbled: ‘There Will Always Be An England!’ but the message had been all but obliterated by scorch marks from the flames. From somewhere Winant found a piece of chalk and, kneeling in the dust, carefully restored the message to its original form. Later that day, the old man returned to Chequers deeply affected, his jaw locked in uncharacteristic silence. He seemed unable to settle. He paced relentlessly, then instructed the Coldstream Guards who were stationed in the grounds of the house to set up a firing range a little way from the house. A few sandbags, a couple of makeshift wooden targets. He wanted to do something violent. Most of the men joined him—not Vic Oliver, he hadn’t been invited—and they stood around in a light drizzle, although none seemed keen to join him as he took aim and emptied the magazine of his pistol, a Colt .45, into the target. A bullet for every fresh catastrophe of the last few days. The Atlantic, the Balkans, the deserts, the West Country. Bullet after bullet smacked home, sending splinters spitting across the lawn, and still he continued firing. A bullet for the pain of his son-in-law, Duncan Sandys, who had just been terribly injured in a car crash. Another for Sarah, who had arrived at Chequers to tell him that her marriage to Vic Oliver was falling apart. And the very last bullet he saved for those thoughts of failure that had begun to intrude upon him at night. He was a man who throughout his life had taken pride in his ability to sleep soundly and wake refreshed, but now devils pursued him through his dreams as well as his waking hours. A whispering campaign had begun in the darker corners of the House of Commons; mutterings about ‘midnight follies’, ‘cigar stump diplomacy’, ‘too much meddling and too many yes-men’. Things were all going hell-ward. And suddenly his aim failed and the bullet sped wide. ‘Anyone gonna join me?’ he demanded, his voice taut as a bowstring. No one stepped forward. They all knew better than to get within snapping distance of the Black Dog. So he thrust his empty weapon at his detective, Thompson, and began striding back towards the house, his hands deep in the pockets and head bent low. Only Winant seemed willing to fall in step beside him, bending his tall frame to get nearer to the old man’s words, causing his unkempt hair to fall across his face. ‘So tell me, Gil, my Intelligence people suggests the Herrenvolk are lengthening the runways on many of their airfields in Poland. You heard anything about that?’ ‘Can’t say I have,’ the American said. It made Churchill feel a little happier. It seemed he was ahead in one game, at least. ‘What the hell do you think they’re up to?’ ‘I’ve no idea. Not for our benefit, I guess.’ ‘Our’ benefit. Churchill liked that. He was beginning to warm to this diffident, angular American. His shirts were habitually crumpled and his blue overcoat a diplomatic disgrace, but the man had heart. ‘And it’s not for the benefit of bloody Lufthansa, either,’ the old man continued. ‘It can only be for the bombers.’ ‘What bombers?’ ‘The bombers they will use when they fall upon Russia.’ ‘But Russia and Germany have a friendship pact…’ ‘So did Cain and Abel.’ ‘What do you think it means?’ ‘It means the Germans are looking east, in search of bigger game. Perhaps our tiny British islands have become an irrelevance in Hitler’s eyes, a sideshow —perhaps he thinks that Winston Churchill is no longer worth the bother.’ ‘You make it sound personal.’ ‘Of course it’s bloody personal! He’s leaving us to die from starvation, imprisoned in our own impotence. But there might be salvation in the insult, Gil. If Germany attacked Russia, they would not dare invade these islands until they were done. It gives us time—time which we both must use.’ He stopped abruptly and grabbed the ambassador’s sleeves. ‘Don’t you see? It will change the whole nature of the war. Make it stretch around the world. Surely America must realize that it could never stay out of such a conflagration.’ The blue eyes were staring up at the taller Winant, boiling with emotion, willing the ambassador and all his countrymen to draw alongside. But it was a passion that Winant knew was so often misdirected. For the best part of a year Churchill had been bombarding Roosevelt with messages that overflowed with obsession and excess. In the old man’s eyes, every hour was the moment of destiny, the hour when civilization would collapse unless Roosevelt sent more destroyers, offered more credits, built more planes, declared war. The bombardment had been conducted without respite and it had reached the point where Roosevelt often didn’t respond to Churchill’s telegrams, simply ducked them, left the moment to grow cold. Not every hour could be Churchill’s hour. The American President had his own battles to fight—against the isolationists who didn’t want to touch the war, against the leaders of organized labour who didn’t want to touch it either, not unless they got paid a whole lot more, and against Congress where good will was flowing about as slowly as treacle on a frosty day. So Roosevelt had taken to ignoring Churchill’s incessant words of doom. ‘I close my eyes,’ the President said, ‘and wake up in the morning to discover that, somehow, the world has survived.’ Winant, too, hoped for a brighter outcome. ‘If Hitler attacks Russia, so might the Japs,’ he suggested. ‘Turn north. Into Siberia. Away from your colonies to the south.’ ‘No. I fear not. Siberia has no oil, no rubber, no resources. Nothing for the Japanese war machine to feast upon.’ ‘You mustn’t always look on the dark side, Winston,’ Winant said in gentle warning. ‘The American people are optimists. It unsettles them if they can see no light in the gloom.’ ‘And what if there is no light? Do you simply sit back and pray you will find your way through the darkness? Or do you pick up a box of matches and start a bloody good fire?’ ‘And burn your house down in the process?’ ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he muttered, unconvinced. ‘But the Japanese Foreign Minister Matsuoka is prowling through the corridors of the Kremlin even as we speak. What the hell’s he up to? Lost his way in the dark, has he?’ ‘He’s just come from Berlin. Our intelligence suggests it’s possible he’s in Moscow preparing the ground.’ ‘For what?’ ‘For a declaration of war.’ ‘Against whom?’ ‘Why…Russia, I mean.’ ‘Then let it be war! War! War!’ he shouted histrionically, to the alarm of the following group. Then he shook his head. ‘But once again your optimistic American intelligence has got it utterly wrong.’ ‘How can you be certain?’ ‘Because intelligence needs to be dipped in a bucket of common sense before it’s laid on the table. And common sense suggests the Japanese haven’t gone to Moscow with bunches of flowers in their hands in order to declare war, any more than they arrived in China with fixed bayonets for the purpose of setting up a wood-whittling business.’ ‘You don’t think much of American Intelligence, then?’ ‘They got it half right. There will be war. And not all the optimists in America will be able to stop it,’ the old man growled, before stomping off in the direction of the house. Sawyers sat with H?loise at the long central table in the kitchen polishing silver, while Mrs Landemare prepared lunch. ‘But I do not understand,’ H?loise protested. ‘Yer too young to understand such things,’ Sawyers responded. ‘Oh, you don’t ’alf talk a lot of tommy-rot at times, Mr Sawyers,’ Mrs Landemare said, peering into a bubbling pot. ‘How so?’ ‘The girl needs to know these things, otherwise she’s going to be dropping breakfast trays from here until the gates of Heaven.’ ‘Well, she’s your relative…’ ‘My hubby’s relative.’ ‘Your responsibility, then,’ Sawyers said, reaching for a fresh buffing rag. Mrs Landemare’s face came up from the pot, her ruddy cheeks and remarkably broad forehead covered in little droplets of steam. Sawyers was opting out. Typical man. ‘It’s war what does it mostly,’ Mrs Landemare began, turning to H?loise, ‘although it goes on just as much when there ain’t any war, I suppose.’ Her awkwardness was stretching almost to the point of contradiction. ‘It’s just that…Well, you haven’t got no mother and father, poor thing, so it’s not surprising this is all a bit new. So, how can I put it?’ She sipped from a ladle, then threw a little more salt in the pot. ‘Great country houses are like little worlds all of their own. The ladies and gentlemen get dropped at the door, and for the time that they’re here the rules of the outside world get put to one side. So Mr C wanders around without a towel at times. Don’t mean nothing by it, it’s just his way. So you make a bit of noise when you get near his bathroom, just so he knows you’re coming.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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