Читать книгу Winston’s War - Michael Dobbs - Страница 10

Chamberlain. Chamberlain. Everywhere one went it was that name, Neville Chamberlain. No occasion seemed complete without his presence. His was the name on everyone’s lips. Hospital beds were being endowed in his name, the French had opened up a fund to provide him with ‘a corner of French soil’ in gratitude, while the photograph of him at the Palace adorned the mantelpieces of thousands of homes – The Times even offered copies to its readers as a souvenir Christmas card. So great had the public clamour grown that it was in danger of becoming compromising; Chamberlain felt compelled to issue a statement declining the Bishop of Coventry’s suggestion that a National Tribute Fund be set up in his honour. This was, after all, a democracy.

‘Has he arrived yet?’ There was no hint of impatience in the question posed by the Dowager Queen Mary – how could even the King’s mother be impatient with a man who was so busy saving the world? But they had missed him. They had gathered at Sandringham in the saloon, a fussy, crowded hall overburdened with family portraits, deer skulls and the paraphernalia of Victorians trying too hard to please. A large stuffed bear stood guard by the staircase. Queen Mary had settled into a chair by the fireplace, glass of sherry in hand, while two men stood by her side, waiting on her and in the process warming themselves by the roaring log fire. The first, Edward Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, was entirely at home in a royal household, for he occupied a position of personal privilege almost unique amongst politicians. He was an intimate friend of the King. They dined frequently and in private, and Halifax had been provided with a key to the gardens of Buckingham Palace so that he was able to walk through them every morning on his way to the Foreign Office. The King practised with his rifle in the gardens and would often waylay Halifax in order to share his views on matters of state, but most of all for the simple pleasure of his company. It could be lonely being an Emperor-King. George VI was relatively inexperienced, a monarch by mistake. He also suffered from a speech impediment so pronounced that his audience often couldn’t tell whether His Majesty had paused for thought or was simply stuck on a stutter. As a result, public appearances terrified him, and perhaps that was why he felt at ease in the company of Halifax, who also and so obviously carried with him the misfortunes of his narrow bloodline. The Viscount was exceptionally tall, dome-headed and gangling, slightly stooped, and born without a left hand. The sleeve on his Savile Row suit was filled with nothing more than a prosthesis, a rubber fist. ‘Armless Eddie’, as the wags called him. And, like the King, the Viscount also suffered from a tangling of the tongue – he was unable to pronounce his ‘r’s. So the two men walked, talked, stuttered and found support in each other’s company. Theirs had become an uncommon bond between uncommon men.

The other man warming himself by the fire was Joseph Kennedy. The Ambassador was, of course, as common as New England mud and had no right to feel at home in the inner sanctums of the British Royal Family, but he didn’t give a damn. Like a presumptuous wine he was le nouvel arrivé, acidic, impertinent but, in the view of Queen Mary, excellent value for money. He was irreverent, called her ‘Your Graciousness’, which brought her out in uncharacteristic smiles, and he shared many of her prejudices.

‘Is an American allowed to tell an English Queen she looks radiant tonight?’ Kennedy began.

‘I think on that matter we might stretch a point, don’t you think, Foreign Secretary?’

‘Undoubtedly, ma’am.’

A flunkey crept between them bearing a crystal decanter to refill Her Majesty’s glass. He was in full royal regalia, stockings, breeches, buckled shoes, ruffs. Kennedy wondered if there was any chance of his borrowing the outfit for Halloween.

‘You gentlemen enjoyed yourselves today, I trust.’

‘They flew low and slow. Just as I like ’em,’ replied the Ambassador who, for all his Wild West hokum, was a poor shot.

‘It has been a particularly happy day for us,’ Queen Mary announced, patting her thighs with pleasure. ‘While you gentlemen were out shooting for your supper I had tea with our nephew, Fritzi – Prince Friedrich of Prussia,’ the elderly dowager added for the American’s benefit. ‘Such a sweet boy. He brought me news and letters from Doorn.’

The American’s expression revealed a state of utter ignorance.

‘Doorn – in Holland,’ Halifax explained. ‘It’s where the Kaiser has his estates. He’s lived there in exile since the end of the war.’

‘He’s our cousin, you see, Ambassador. We were very close. You can imagine how difficult it’s been in recent days.’

Kennedy began to recall his State Department briefings. Family ties were important, sure, no argument from him on that score, but the bloodlines that bound the royal families of Germany and Britain together came close to a genetic noose. Britain had been ruled by Germans for the best part of two hundred years. Called themselves Hanoverians. Some had barely spoken English, all of them had married German wives. Even the dowager seated on the chair beside him was a princess of some place called Teck – and Hesse, and Wuerttemberg, too, come to that, and the exiled Kaiser – the war-mongering, bottom-pinching, mustachio-twirling Wilhelm – was a grandson of Victoria. The British Royal Family was almost Appalachian in its enthusiasm to disappear up its own roots.

‘It’s inconceivable, war once more. Between Britain and Germany. Cousin against cousin. Isn’t it, Ambassador?’ Queen Mary demanded.

‘Sure, totally inconceivable,’ he agreed – although such refined family sensitivities didn’t seem to have stopped them last time. When all was said and the dying done, the Great War had amounted to nothing more than one huge family sulk, King against Kaiser against Tsar – until the Americans arrived and banged their inbred heads together.

‘Think of the cost,’ she continued. ‘We couldn’t possibly afford it. And the Empire!’ For a moment it seemed as though she might swoon; red spots appeared upon her powdered cheeks. ‘It would spark unrest throughout the colonies, particularly in those awkward places like the Middle East and India.’ She turned on Halifax. ‘Edward, you know India, of course.’

Halifax stooped low, bowing his head in acknowledgement. He had been Viceroy of India until a few years previously.

‘They are … wonderful, yes, quite wonderful, the Indians,’ the dowager persisted. ‘But they do have a habit of taking advantage every time one’s back is turned.’

Her voice grew softer, more conspiratorial. ‘No, Herr Hitler may have his faults, but consider the alternative. Either Germany will dominate the continent, or it will fall to the Bolsheviks. And who would you prefer to take tea with, Ambassador? A German traditionalist who at least has the sense to do business with us, or a Bolshevik revolutionary who has one knife at your purse and the other at your throat?’

‘Foreign Secretary?’ Kennedy enquired, shuffling off the responsibility.

Halifax considered carefully. It was a complex question, one he had debated long and hard with his colleagues and his God. ‘I am no fan of Herr Hitler. He is a ferocious bully, a man with blood on his hands. And yet I see no reason why that blood should be British. On the other hand Bolshevism represents a threat to everything this country stands for.’ He began tapping the pocket of his dinner jacket with his prosthesis as if to check that his wallet hadn’t disappeared. ‘Look at the map, Ambassador. The most substantial obstacle standing in Stalin’s path is Germany. Without a strong Reich’ – the word emerged most wretchedly mangled – ‘there would be nothing to stop Stalin’s hordes sweeping through the continent until they stood at our own front door. Personally – and as an aristocrat I have to view such things personally – I take no pleasure in the prospect of being butchered simply because of what I was born. Begging your pardon, ma’am.’

Tiny shudders of sympathy ran through the Dowager Queen, causing the four strands of jewels in her necklace to sparkle. She had long been tormented by the fate of her cousin, the last Tsar, who had been murdered with his entire family in the cellar at Ekaterinburg, led down the steps, repeatedly shot, then finished off with bayonets. No, not a proper fate for a king. Her shuddering became more violent and she moved her hand to the folds of her throat.

Kennedy, meanwhile, was in excellent spirits. The seat of his trousers had been warmed thoroughly by the fire and the bourbon he was sipping was iced and excellent. It seemed an appropriate time for a little fun. ‘I agree with you, Foreign Secretary,’ Kennedy offered, picking up the thread of the conversation. ‘It’s a time when we all have to make choices. Tough choices.’ A malicious pause. ‘Pity no one seems to have told Mr Churchill that.’

The Queen reacted as though she had suddenly found a pin in the cushion of the chair. ‘That man!’ she gasped with an expression of pain.

Halifax began to clear his throat, loudly, diplomatically, trying to give the Queen the opportunity to withdraw, but she was in her own house and would have none of it. She was, after all, a woman who carried with her the reputation of being a notorious kleptomaniac, and hosts who invited her for dinner would instruct the servants to lock away the best silver in case she took a liking to a piece and stuffed it in her handbag. She was not a woman who had ever been unduly sensitive about other people’s feelings, and she had no intention of showing weakness now.

‘He crashes around like a bull who hasn’t been fed for a week,’ she persisted, treating herself to a huge sip of sherry. ‘Leaves wreckage everywhere he goes.’

‘Ma’am?’ Kennedy enquired, wanting more, bending low.

‘My apologies, Ambassador, but …’ For a moment it seemed she had shocked herself by her own indiscretion. Her face had gone pale beneath the powder, like snow-swept granite, and, taking Halifax’s hint, she looked for some means of escape. She peered blindly across the saloon. ‘Edward, who is that woman? The one dressed like a Parisian actress?’

‘Um, the lady by the staircase?’

‘The one whose necklace appears to be nudging her navel. They can’t be real, surely.’

‘The jewels, ma’am? Indeed they can. That is the wife of one of the King’s bankers.’

He offered the name and the Dowager Queen’s nostrils flared in distaste, as though someone had just thrown a horse-hair mattress on the fire. Not a guest who would have been invited in her day. This distraction wasn’t working. Anyway, she argued with herself, why should she be seeking distraction? She was old, and with age went all sorts of allowances to indulge her whims, to jump in puddles and rattle the railings and pinch the silver just as she wished. Her husband was dead, she was no longer on parade. Why should she hold back?

‘I had forgotten that you are so recently arrived in our country, Ambassador. But since you have expressed an interest in Mr Churchill, it would be rude of me not to advise you on the matter. You will soon get to know Mr Churchill’s record. An exceptional one, indeed.’ She paused for effect and for breath. ‘He has never been loyal to anyone other than himself. He changes parties and friendships whenever it suits him. None of our business, of course, but when he begins blundering into matters of the Crown, that is quite another thing. Oh, it pains me, Mr Kennedy, that my son Edward should have behaved so badly over the abdication. That was terrible enough for any family to bear. But Mr Churchill proved himself to be utterly outrageous. Talked of forming a King’s Party. Wanted Edward to stay on the throne and to turn the whole thing into a huge political row. Would have had That Woman as Queen!’

Her Royal Annoyance disappeared into her sherry, unable for the moment to continue, while Kennedy felt forced to stifle a smile in order to maintain the stern face of diplomacy. If only ‘That Woman’, Wallis Simpson, had been a sour-faced German dumpling, how much easier Edward’s path might have been …

The Queen’s head was up once more, her emotions on the flood. ‘Mr Winston Churchill’ – she was intent on putting him in his place – ‘Mr Winston Churchill has done more than any other commoner since Cromwell to bring our family to the brink of ruin. Why, he might as well be a Bolshevik!’

Halifax, anxious that the Queen Mother was diverting down avenues which might prove uncomfortable, picked up the explanation. ‘Winston has had many difficult times,’ he explained to Kennedy, ‘but the abdication row was the worst. He came back to the Commons after what might be termed, um … a considerable lunch, and would not go quietly. Insisted on rising to make a speech, to argue against the abdication. When the matter was already settled.’

The dowager muttered darkly. Kennedy thought he could make out the words ‘dog’ and ‘vomit’.

‘It was, um, an extraordinary scene. He was jeered from all sides, to the point where he could take it no longer. Forced to leave the Chamber. Flogged from his post. His reputation has never recovered. A sad end to a considerable career. Who knows what – um, in other circumstances – might have been?’

Kennedy had to work still harder to contain his amusement at Halifax’s soft twisting of the stiletto and the outpouring of tortured ‘r’s. His entertainment was interrupted by what seemed at first sight to be an ostrich, an apparition in feathers that began to bob slowly up and down. It proved to be one of the guests, the wife of a senior diplomat, who was curtseying – once, twice – trying to catch the Dowager Queen’s attention. The attempt failed miserably. The Queen stared unflinching with eyes that could pluck feathers at fifty paces. After all, this particular bird was one of that circle of society women who – like the banker’s wife – had taken her son, the once-innocent Edward, under their wings and into their beds, ensuring that the handsome young prince wanted for neither experience nor education. Trouble was, they had also left him with a taste for the exotic which, in Queen Mary’s view, had pushed him down the slippery sexual slope that had led to his ruin with That Woman. The Queen chose neither to forgive nor to forget, and the courtier moved on, distraught, flapping her freshly clipped wings.

Kennedy returned them to their conversation. ‘So you don’t think Mr Churchill has much of a political future?’

‘The best is past, and some time ago,’ Halifax muttered.

The royal whalebone rattled. ‘It is all theatre. He hasn’t a smudge of support.’

Kennedy loved this woman and it showed. Fiery, passionate, opinionated. Hell, if only they’d also given the Royal Family a brain, how different history might have been.

‘Ah, um, which brings me to another point, Ambassador,’ Halifax continued. ‘On which the Prime Minister and I would much appreciate your support.’

‘You want New York back?’

‘Not quite our architectural style any longer, I think. No, it’s Paramount, the um … picture company. They’ve put out a news film for the cinemas which is really – how can one put this? – not helpful. Goes on about what it calls the German diplomatic triumph and the sufferings in Czechoslovakia rather than um … the peace and security which the agreement has delivered to the whole of Europe. Censorship is out of the question, of course, I fully understand that, but I wondered – particularly with your background in Hollywood – could you have a word with Paramount? With the owners, perhaps? Encourage them to bring a little more balance to their productions?’

‘You mean twist a few arms. Break a few legs.’

‘I’m sure just a word in the right ear would be sufficient,’ Halifax insisted.

‘Hey, but half of Hollywood is run by the sons of Israel. Fiddling their own tune. What can you expect …?’

Their discussion was interrupted by a string quartet starting up. Something Middle European. Probably Bach. Coincidence, of course, but to the Queen it seemed like a heavenly fanfare, for at that moment the Prime Minister himself entered the room, dressed for dinner with his wife Anne on his arm.

‘Ah, Neville,’ the Dowager Queen fluttered, shaken from her sherry, ‘it’s Blessed Neville. At last! Now we can all rest in peace.’

Neville. Blessed Neville. The saintly Neville. Everywhere he goes his name is on their lips and he is acclaimed from all sides. Peace – and praise – in his time. A task completed, a world saved. And a point proved. How ironic it is that of all the generations of mighty Chamberlains, he should be the one to make his mark, and how grotesque that, after what has been said in his praise, he should still feel insecure. But Neville has been raised in the shadows, almost a political afterthought, the son of Joseph and half-brother of Austen, both more obviously eminent than he. And yet neither made it to 10 Downing Street. But he has. He may not have wits as quick or tongue so lyrical, but what he lacks in natural gifts he has made up for with persistence and hard work – some call it blind stubbornness, a determination that has left him grey and close to the edge of utter exhaustion. His body has arrived at the point where cold iron grips him inside at night, and still lingers there in the morning. He has needed every ounce of that stubbornness and self-belief to enable him to carry on, but carry on he must. The peace of Europe depends upon it. So does the good name of his family.

He is still feeling cold to his core as he drives – rather, is being driven – back from Sandringham House. The applause of the guests is ringing in his ears, the warmth of the King’s handshake still upon his palm, but by God it’s cold at night in these Fens. He wraps himself more tightly in the car blanket and tries to find comfort on the leather seats of the Austin. He wishes he could sleep, like his wife beside him, but sleep has learned to avoid him. It is dark outside, as it was when he flew back from Germany. He had never flown before but three times now he has made the trip, long and uncomfortable, like being thrown around in a tumbrel as it crosses uneven cobbles. But it has been worth the pain. As he flew back that last time along the Thames towards London, he realized he was following the path the bombers might take. And there below him, in all its electric splendour, had sat London and its millions of men, women and children – his own grandchild included, born just days before he left – waiting. Waiting for him, waiting for Hitler, waiting defenceless for whatever might be thrown against them. But now there isn’t going to be a war. And he hopes never to have to go up in an aeroplane again.

He knows there are those who mock him, but only the types who would have mocked Jesus himself. Behind his back they call him the Undertaker, the Coroner, but not to his face, not any more. Even Hitler had shouted and stormed at him, his spittle landing on Chamberlain’s cheek, and Horace Wilson had told him that during one of his private interviews in Berchtesgaden the Fuehrer had become so agitated that he had screamed and fallen to the floor in a fit. He is the commonest little dog, the German leader, no doubt of that, but if he is half-mad then there is also the other half, and at least he is a man of business. And he, Neville Chamberlain, has done business with him – ‘the first man in many years who has got any concessions out of me,’ as Hitler told him – and he has brought back a piece of paper bearing his signature on which the lives of hundreds of millions of Europeans depend. Herr Hitler has given his word.

The visits to Germany have had their lighter moments, of course. When he arrived in Munich and stepped down from the plane, an SS guard of honour had been waiting ready for inspection. With skulls and crossbones on their collars. What, he had wondered, did they signify? Anyway, as they came to attention he remembered that he had left his umbrella on the plane and kept the SS waiting while he retrieved it. The great German army – held up by an umbrella! And they accuse him of having no sense of humour.

He has achieved more than merely an absence of war, he has built the foundations for peace – a peace in which Britain will be at the heart of Europe, with real influence, helping shape its future rather than simply watching in impotence as a resurgent Germany grows increasingly dominant. “Proaching Cambridge, sir,’ the driver announces – God, miles still to go. His thoughts turn to his half-brother, Austen, and the Nobel Peace Prize he had been awarded for his efforts in bringing the nations of Europe together. And he wonders whether two brothers have ever separately won a Nobel Prize before. Not that he has been awarded the Peace Prize yet, of course, no point in jumping the guns (although he has, quite literally). But his brother had never had a poem dedicated to his honour by the Poet Laureate, John Masefield:

‘As Priam to Achilles for his son,

So you, into the night, divinely led,

To ask that young men’s bodies, not yet dead,

Be given from the battle not begun.’

‘What was that, darling?’ His wife, Anne, stirs, woken from her sleep.

‘Sorry, my dear. Must’ve been talking out loud. Rest a while longer. Still a way to go.’

And what had Queen Mary told him? Over dinner she took his hand – yes, actually touched him – and said she had received a letter from the Kaiser himself in which he had said – oh, the words burned bright – that he had ‘not the slightest doubt that Mr Chamberlain was inspired by heaven and guided by God’. It makes him feel unbearably humble. He is sixty-nine, rapidly wearing out, undeniably mortal, yet with the hand of a Queen on his sleeve and his God at his shoulder. Still some, even within his own party, deny him. What would they have him do, for pity’s sake? Cast humanity aside and launch upon another bloody war? What in heaven’s name would they have him fight with? A French air force without wings? A Russian army with no scruples? Those people, that rag-bag of political mongrels around Churchill – armchair terriers who have urged him to introduce conscription, not just of men but of capital, too. Suggested he should take over the banks and much of business. Control their profits. Insanity! Doing the Bolsheviks’ work for them. But what could he expect of Winston, waving around his whisky and soda, desperately trying to obliterate the memories of his own manifold failures as a military leader. They would carve Gallipoli upon Churchill’s gravestone, along with the names of the forty thousand British soldiers who were slaughtered there. Herr Hitler had called Churchill and the other warmongers ‘moerderen’ – murderers. He had a point.

The car is rolling down the A10 now, his thoughts rolling with it, past the acres of glasshouses that carpet the Lea Valley, approaching the outskirts of Cheshunt. The anger has warmed him inside but he remains exhausted almost to the point of despair. The driver slows to take a bend and through the darkness the Prime Minister can see the outline of a church, and a notice that announces it to be St Clement’s. Oranges and lemons, said the bells of St Clement’s … And St Martin’s, the Old Bailey, Shoreditch, Stepney, Old Bow. The candle is here to light him to bed. And here comes the chopper to chop off his head – chip, chop, chip, chop – the last man’s dead! In his tormented mind, Chamberlain has a vision. The heart of London has been ripped out by bombers, the church spires are burning like funeral pyres, and in their light he can see Winston Churchill, astride it all, holding the axe! Chip – chop – chip – chop. Oh, but this is no children’s game, there is no need for him to run away. Chip – chop – chip. He thinks he can hear the methodical rhythm of the axe as it falls, but it is only the beating of the car engine. His body aches, his mind is swimming with fatigue and a small tear begins to trace an uncertain path down his cheek. He wonders vaguely why he is crying, but arrives at no clear answer. He doesn’t make a habit of crying, can’t remember the last time he did so. Oh, yes, it was as a young child, when he refused to get out of the bath and his father had punished him …

He dwells on memories of yesterday, perhaps because he dare not dwell on tomorrow. Sometimes, at that vanishing point as wakefulness dips into sleep, Chamberlain has a vision that London is burning after all and he has got the whole thing wrong. The crowds are no longer cheering and both God and the Queen have turned their backs. But it is only a dream. As they pass Queen Eleanor’s memorial at Waltham Cross, finally he falls into a fitful sleep.

Late nights were spreading like a disease in Downing Street. They disrupted the process of calm thought and careful digestion. They were not to be encouraged.

‘I’ll follow you in a minute, my dear,’ Chamberlain promised as his wife set foot on the stairs. They both knew she would be asleep in her own room long before he made it up to the second floor. There came a point where the body was too exhausted to relax, and he had long since passed that point. He would need a drink and to pace a little before he could think of retiring, perhaps refresh himself from a few of the thousands of letters and telegrams waiting for him.

As he wandered in search of distraction through the darkened corridors, he discovered a chink of light shining from beneath the door of the anteroom next to the Cabinet Room. The elfin grove. Muffled laughter. He was drawn to it like a moth.

The merriment ceased as Horace Wilson and Joseph Ball looked up in concern. ‘Everything in order, Neville?’ Ball enquired. They were used to the tides of exhaustion that had swept across their master in recent weeks, but the face at the door was more lugubrious, the moustache more determinedly drooped, than ever.

‘Things in order? Perhaps you should tell me. You two always seem to know so much more about what’s going on than do I.’

The Prime Minister sank into a chair and held out his hand. It was immediately filled with a glass of white wine. Tired eyes lifted in silent thanks. So often he found there was no need to use words with these elves, they had an uncanny ability to understand his needs – and particularly Wilson, whom he had inherited from the previous administration of Baldwin. At times it seemed to be the finest part of his inheritance. Softly spoken, pale eyes, fastidious by habit, understated but extraordinarily determined. From the start Wilson and the new Prime Minister had been natural colleagues, one the Government’s Chief Industrial Adviser, the other a former Birmingham businessman, both seeing virtue in compromise and believing pragmatism to be a guiding principle. Politics were, after all, simply about business, a matter of making deals.

Ball was different. He was a man of fleshy indulgence, which showed beneath the waistcoats of his broad chalk-stripe suits. His fingers were thick, like sausages, and his face was round, an appearance exaggerated by the manner in which his dark hair was slicked close to his skull. His demeanour was often deliberately intimidating – he would take up his position behind his desk, staring inquisitorially through porthole spectacles like the barrister and spy master he once was, stirring only occasionally to wave away the cigarette smoke in which he was half-obscured. Unlike Wilson he was not in the least fastidious, being entirely open about his prejudices, which he promoted through his role as the mastermind of propaganda at Conservative Central Office, and also through a newspaper he published entitled Truth. Truth, for Ball, consisted of destroying the reputations of all opponents – among whom he numbered most Americans and all Jews – and he was liberal only in the means he employed to achieve his ends. He was extremely wealthy and had access to many sources of funds, using them not only to support his own publications but also to place spies inside the headquarters of the Labour Party and amongst opposition newspapers. He was widely loathed and almost universally feared.

Yet he was even closer to the Prime Minister than was Wilson. Ball and Chamberlain shared a passion for country pursuits and particularly fly-fishing that swept them off in each other’s company to the salmon rivers of Scotland at the slightest opportunity, sometimes with unseemly haste. It was widely rumoured that the dates of many parliamentary recesses were set around the fishing calendar. Somehow there always seemed to be time for a little fishing.

‘So, how is our ungrateful world?’ Chamberlain pressed as he sipped the wine. It surprised him. An excellent hock.

The elves looked at each other with an air of conspiratorial mischief. It was Ball who spoke.

‘This will pain you, Neville, I’m sure. But I fear Winston’s got himself into a spot of bother.’

‘Truly?’ A thick eyebrow arched in anticipation.

‘More than a spot. An entire bloody bog.’

‘Drink?’

‘Money.’

‘Will he never learn?’ A pause. The hock was tasting better by the mouthful. ‘How much?’

‘More than forty thousand.’

‘My God!’

‘Forty-three thousand, seven hundred and forty, to be precise. Due by Christmas.’

It was a fortune. More than four times the Prime Minister’s own generous salary.

‘But how?’

‘Been gambling on the New York stock exchange. Losing. Now the banks are calling in his loans.’

‘We have him,’ Wilson added softly, as though announcing the arrival of a tray of tea.

‘Bracken’s been trying to help, find an angel to save him. But the angels don’t seem keen on saving the soul of a man who wants a war that would ruin them.’

‘So what will he do?’

‘Sell what’s left of his shares. Put Chartwell on the market. Pay off his debts with the proceeds.’

‘Chartwell’s been a nest of vipers for too long,’ Wilson added. ‘Time it was cleared out.’

‘No, no …’ Chamberlain was shaking his head, his brow furrowed in concentration. ‘That would be wrong.’

‘Wrong? What’s wrong?’ Ball muttered, as though grappling with a new philosophical concept.

‘He loathes you, Neville,’ Wilson objected. ‘Leads the opposition on all fronts.’

‘And he’ll do so again, given half a chance,’ Ball emphasized.

‘Precisely,’ Chamberlain agreed, steepling his fingers as though in prayer, urging them on.

‘But these debts will crucify him.’

‘What is to be gained by seeing him crucified now?’

‘For the pleasure of it!’ Ball cried.

‘To clean up Westminster,’ Wilson suggested.

‘But he can do us no harm,’ Chamberlain persisted. ‘It would be like stepping on an ant.’

The two elves fell into silence. They hadn’t caught on, not yet, but they knew the Prime Minister tied a mean fly.

‘Winston doesn’t matter, not now, at least. He has lost, we have won. That’s the truth of the matter. And if at this moment he were to fall over the edge, no one would even hear the splash. And how should we gain any benefit from that? Those who stand against us would only regroup, find a new leader and we would have to start all over again. No, there’s a better way. Not today, perhaps, not this month but sometime soon, there will be another crisis. How much better it would be, when that time comes, that their leader is a man who is on the brink. Vulnerable. Unstable as always. Whom we control and with one small nudge can send spinning into the abyss – if that were to prove necessary.’ There was colour in his face again, a spirit that had revived. The tips of his fingers were beating time, pacing his thoughts.

‘By God,’ Wilson breathed. ‘But how?’

‘Bail him out. Extend just sufficient credit for him to survive, for now. Play him on the line. Until he’s exhausted and we can net him whenever we choose.’

‘But he must not realize …’

‘Of course not. Do we know his bankers?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Are they … friends?’

Ball snorted, struggling with the concept that bankers might be blessed with feelings more complex than those of black widow spiders. ‘Much better than friends. They’re the party’s bankers.’

‘Then they will co-operate. Tell them we want to help a colleague – but quietly, anonymously, to save embarrassment. Underwrite his loan. Let Winston survive – for the moment.’

‘Goes against the bloody grain. When they’re hooked, pull ’em in, Neville, that’s what I say. Don’t let them slip the line.’

‘You and I are a little too skilful for that, I hope, Joe.’

‘You let that forty-pounder go last August.’

‘You know very well he tangled the line in the roots of a tree. Winston is considerably less agile and will have much less stamina for the fight. Don’t you agree, Horace?’

Wilson had been quiet. He was no angler. He was a negotiator, looking for advantage. ‘If we’ve won and there’s no real opposition, as you say, then strike now. Not just for Winston but the whole damned lot. You have the King beside you and the country behind you. Call an election!’

‘An election? But it’s not due for another two years.’

‘There may never be a better time.’

‘Joe?’

‘It would call Winston’s bluff. Maybe get him thrown out in Epping, if he continues to be disloyal. Think of that. What a sign that’d be to the rest of the buggers! And the opinion polls are putting you a mile ahead, Neville.’

‘Are they? Are they …?’ But Chamberlain was uneasy.

‘A referendum on the peace,’ Ball encouraged.

‘But profiting from Munich?’ He looked tired once more, his sentences growing clipped.

‘Why not make a little profit?’

‘I signed the agreement at Munich. Doesn’t mean to say I have to like it.’

‘Peace with honour, Neville.’

‘Silly phrase. Borrowed it from Disraeli – what he said when he came back from the Congress of Berlin. I shouldn’t have. Moment of weakness. Did what I had to do, but how can I take pride in it? I gave my word. To the Czechs. Then I broke it. Sacrificed them to save the world. Not much of a manifesto, that.’

His eyes were cast down in confession, and for a moment silence hung heavily in the room until Wilson spoke up. ‘We did what we had to do, Neville. And the world rejoices.’

Slowly the head came up. ‘A fine thought to take me to my bed.’ Chamberlain rose.

‘But does that mean forgive and forget, Neville? Let the bastards off?’ Ball called out, evidently exasperated, as Chamberlain made to leave the room.

‘I think that’s for their constituencies to decide. And the press.’ He was standing at the door, leaning on the jamb. The exhaustion had returned and he could fight it no longer. His face was the colour of old linen yet his deep-set eyes still burned with a remarkable defiance and were staring directly at Ball. ‘I suspect some of them are going to be given a pretty rough ride, don’t you, Joe?’

‘Damn right,’ Ball said.

The eyes flickered and went out. ‘And so to bed.’ It was then Chamberlain noticed that he still had his glass in his hand. He drained it before setting it aside. ‘Incidentally, an excellent hock. Far better than our usual fare.’

‘It’s a Hochheimer Königin Victoriaberg, from a vineyard once owned by Prince von Metternich. I thought it would be appropriate for you. Full of subtlety, nobility, audacity …’

‘And where did you get this liquid jewel?’

‘From Ribbentrop. He sent several cases back with us from Munich as a goodwill gift.’

‘Always the wine salesman … eh?’

Joachim von Ribbentrop, the German Foreign Minister, had until recently been his country’s Ambassador to London. He had been a natural choice for the post since he was a Nazi of long standing who knew the British capital well, having run a wine business there for many years and established a reputation as an excellent host. He had been – and in many eyes still was – the acceptable face of Hitlerism, and much of London society had beaten a path to the dining table of his embassy in Carlton House Terrace.

‘I was his landlord for a time, you know,’ Chamberlain muttered. ‘He rented my family house in Eaton Place. After I moved in here. Like clockwork with the rent. Always told me – raise glasses, not guns. Good man, good man …’ The rest was lost as he stumbled up the dark stairs of Downing Street.