Michael Ridpath: Shadows of War

‘And how is Winston taking it?’

‘He’s pushing back. Chamberlain is supporting Churchill for now.’ Chamberlain was important. Although Chamberlain’s reputation with the general public was low, the Conservative Party still respected him; most of them regretted ditching him for Churchill. ‘Halifax is threatening to threaten to resign.’

‘Threatening to threaten?’ said Alston.

‘You know what I mean,’ said the Civil Servant. ‘Halifax will never take the direct route when an indirect route is possible. But he means it.’

‘Excellent!’ said Alston. Churchill would not survive a minute without Halifax’s support.

‘The two of them are talking in the Downing Street garden as we speak. And there’s something else.’

‘Yes?’

‘Churchill is going to ask Chamberlain if he objects to Lloyd George joining the government.’

‘Lloyd George will refuse,’ said Alston. He had discussed timing with the old fox; Lloyd George had no intention of being co-opted into a failing government. Halifax had lost his nerve. Chamberlain had lost the country’s confidence. Hoare was ambassador in Spain. There were no other major politicians in British politics. Apart from Lloyd George. They would have to turn to him for Prime Minister, and Alston would be right there with the old man.

‘Now, I must be going,’ said the Civil Servant.

‘Thank you for keeping me so well informed,’ said Alston.

He sat alone in his leather armchair in the library, thinking. Tomorrow or perhaps the day after, Churchill would fall. The twenty-ninth would be the day to act. But where was the Duke of Windsor?

Alston hadn’t heard from Lord Oakford, or from his travelling companion Constance, since they had left Paris four days earlier. Alston’s sources at the Foreign Office had told him that the duke had arrived in Biarritz. Perhaps something had happened to Oakford and Constance on their journey across France? A delay? An accident?

He hated the idea of something happening to Constance. He depended on her so much for things his wife couldn’t give him, or his political friends for that matter. When his triumph came, he wanted to share it with her. He wasn’t quite sure how that would work, but there had been prime ministers with mistresses before.

The thought excited him.

There was the duke to think about. It would be much better for Oakford to persuade him face-to-face that he should return to England, but if Oakford hadn’t made it, then Alston would have to risk a telegram.

He shifted to a writing desk in the library and composed something brief and unambiguous.

‘SIR YOU ARE REQUIRED URGENTLY AT HOME STOP LEAVE 28 THSTOP PLANE WAITING FOR YOU AT BIARRITZ AERODROME STOP ALSTON’.

Wiltshire

It had been a long, long voyage from Bordeaux, and it wasn’t over yet. Conrad had managed to get a place on a cargo ship from Durban which had diverted to Bordeaux to pick up passengers. The ship had room for sixty passengers, but there were at least three hundred on board. Conrad found himself a few square feet of deck on which to lie.

The journey had taken thirty-six hours. The ship had dumped its passengers in Falmouth, before continuing its scheduled voyage to Liverpool. From Falmouth, Conrad had had to fight for a place on a train to Exeter, and then on to London.

He had had plenty of time to think. About his father, most of all. How was he going to tell his mother what had happened? She was a brave woman, but Millie’s death had hit her hard. And of course he would have to tell her his own part in his father’s death. He hoped she wouldn’t blame him; she knew Lord Oakford and his pig-headed determination to achieve peace at any costs better than anyone else.

And his father had been foolish, typically foolish. He was living proof that a pacifist could be brave; he had been willing to sacrifice his life for what he believed in. Indeed willing to dare his son to shoot him. What kind of father was he?

A courageous, stupid, fanatical, bad-tempered, principled, treacherous father. That’s what kind.

How could Conrad live with a dead father like that?

How could he live without him?

Of course, as Veronica had pointed out, Conrad was now the new Viscount Oakford. Conrad didn’t want the bloody title. It was his father’s. Or Edward’s. As far as Conrad was concerned, even bloody Reggie could have it; he’d love to be lord-of-the-bloody-manor. Conrad just wanted his family back.

He had hastily discussed with Madame de Salignac what to do with his father’s body. She had suggested burying him in the local village churchyard. Conrad had agreed, but on condition that Constance Scott-Dunton was buried somewhere else, anywhere else, just not next to his father. He imagined taking his mother there after the war. What he couldn’t imagine was what kind of country France, or Britain for that matter, would be when the war eventually ended, and whether that would be in several years’ time or just a couple of weeks.

He remembered Veronica urging him to shoot his father. He could forgive her that: she understood why he was hesitating and was urging him to do what she believed was the right thing. He wasn’t sure about her working for McCaigue, although he believed that she had been duped by the major. He wondered whether she would be successful persuading the Duke of Windsor to stay in France. A tall order, but Conrad had learned never to underestimate his wife.

He had grabbed a copy of The Times at Exeter station. Rumours that the Allies had surrendered Calais were false. The French were counter-attacking near Amiens. Back in England, pig clubs would come to the aid of small rearers in time of war and housewives were advised to move kitchen cabinets nearer to the stove to save labour.

Conrad wondered whether his battalion was still twiddling its thumbs in Suffolk, or whether it had been ordered to France as Colonel Rydal had anticipated. Perhaps they were fighting the Germans at last. If so, it sounded as if they would be lucky to get back to England in one piece. He should be with them.

And what of Anneliese? How would she be taking captivity? Conrad had hoped that McCaigue would get her out of prison. Much more likely, he was keeping her inside.

He missed her. He felt a sudden, almost overwhelming desire to hold her. To talk to her. To stroke her hair.

But now he was on a train jolting and juddering its way towards London, he couldn’t think about his mother, or Anneliese, or even returning to his unit. Somehow he had to convince the British government that it was in imminent danger. But whom could he talk to?

Not McCaigue, obviously. Van almost certainly wouldn’t listen to him and would alert McCaigue. His mother, perhaps. She knew people, but she was back in Somerset. It would take too long. Also she was German and therefore bound to raise doubts.

What of his father’s friends? Many of them were powerful people. But Conrad had no idea which, if any of them, were involved in Lord Oakford’s plotting. Or which were also friends of Sir Henry Alston.

There was his father’s old school chum Lord Halifax. Conrad had met him on a number of occasions, and he was sure Halifax would remember him. He was also as convinced as he could be of his integrity and loyalty.

But not his initiative. Halifax was an expert at doing nothing.

There was one man who might listen to him, and if he believed Conrad, who would definitely act. He had listened to Conrad once two years earlier. The trouble was, he would be hard to reach, especially in these times.

But he was Conrad’s only hope.

Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary

28 May

Fighting near Dunkirk. We can see hundreds of British ships evacuating troops, thousands of troops. If only we hadn’t been forced to halt, we would have bagged the lot of them!