Ian Slater - Rage of Battle

“Once again,” the prime minister continued, “in the long but, I might add, often tenuous history of the democracies, democracy’s fatal flaw in times of war is revealed by the opposition members’ well-intentioned but, I daresay, militarily unsound concern.” There was hooting, but the prime minister ignored it. “To be sure, our rights, precious to us, are the foundation stones upon which all our freedoms reside, but now — now it is high time for the honorable member to voice as much concern for national security as for individual rights. Far better—” There was more jeering in the background. “Far better we err on the side of national security than to lose the fight for our very survival — a survival without which individual freedoms cannot flourish — a survival which, if not secured in the face of the dark and titanic forces ranged against us, will plunge all Europe and the United States into a totalitarianism. A totalitarianism so bereft of all the good we have known, so dreadful in its every manifestation, that I submit we have no choice but to marshal all the strength we have, to suspend some of those rights we normally enjoy, to bury all differences we have within the European community — to forget all else but our duty to stand fast — to resist with every fiber in our being.” There was a thundering of desks being pounded.

“Windbag,” said Rosemary. “He’s getting us ready for a new purge of habeas corpus.”

“Really, Rose,” objected Richard, wiping condensation from the windshield. “I hardly think ‘purge’ is the appropriate word—”

“I think it is,” put in Georgina. “Rosey’s quite right. The windbag’s getting ready for another Dunkirk — only this time there’ll be no miracle. The Russians won’t hold back their tanks like Hitler did. He was too stupid to—”

“The Americans! The Americans!” cut in Richard Spence with some heat. “Do remember, you two, this time we’ve the Americans with us. This time they’ve been in it from the very beginning—”

“Americans! Really, Daddy.” Georgina leaned forward from the backseat. “With all due respect to your Robert, Rosey, who I’m sure is very capable and—”

“Daddy!” Rosemary’s tone was so imperious, he started in fright and almost lost control of the Audi as it turned sharply down the hill, past a copse of ancient oaks roaring in the tempest about them.

“For God’s sake, Rosey!” began Richard. “What’s the—”

“Stop the car! Please.” She had her hand on the door handle. He pumped the brake, bringing the car to a standstill on the narrow shoulder of the road. Through the noise of wind and rain he thought he could hear another convoy approaching, alarmed at the prospect of the left-hand-drive American trucks bearing down on him, hugging the center line in the storm.

Rosemary had twisted herself around from the left front passenger’s seat, hand clutching the diagonal seat strap, face flushed, bright with rage as she ordered Georgina out of the car.

“What?” said Georgina in astonishment.

“Go on!” yelled Rosemary. “Get out!”

Richard Spence reached over. “Rosey. Here — hang on, old girl.”

“Get out!” screamed Rosemary. “You sod!”

“Rose!” said Richard, utter disbelief on his face. “What on earth—”

“Has gotten into me?” snapped Rosemary, turning on him. “She has! This—” She was sneering at her younger sister in a way the latter had never seen her do. “This inflated, left-sucking bitch. She’s so consumed by her smart chitchat from LSE — her obligatory anti-Americanism. So caring, aren’t you, Georgina? What was your ridiculous thesis on? London poor as victims of bourgeois values — or some such rubbish?” Rosemary turned back to her father. “Do you realize what your bourgeois money has got you, Father? A nineteen-thirties fellow traveler. She’s so desperate to be ‘in’ with that brittle intellectual crowd up there, she’ll even insult the man I chose to marry.” Now she was turning on Georgina again. “Your type are all the same, Georgina. You love humanity but you hate people.” The tears were rolling down Rosemary’s cheeks. “Who are you to…” she yelled at Georgina, “… a man who might not come back…the only man I’ve ever—” She stopped, scrabbling in her purse for a tissue.

Richard Spence was so stunned by her outburst that all he could do was look aghast at his two daughters. He didn’t know them.

“I’m sorry, Rosey,” said Georgina quietly. “I–I shouldn’t have said that about the Americans. I thought you of all people could face facts head on. I merely said we’re being walloped, which we are. I didn’t mean to cast aspersions—”

“Oh, spare me,” said Rosemary, her face splotchy from crying, trying to unravel tissues from their tight, insufferable little balls, which weren’t in her purse after all but hiding, as usual, in the very depths of her overcoat. “Do spare me the pained reason bit, Georgina. You and your precious ‘feeing facts.’ It might work in most of the provinces, but not down here. I know you too well. When you want to be offensive— which is most of the time — you sheath your venom in ‘facts.’ You’re a bundle of ‘facts’!” Rosemary blew her nose hard.

Dimly Richard could see a figure running toward them from the direction of St. Anselm’s gate, which he guessed must be still a few hundred yards off, hidden — an onslaught of yellowed maple leaves swirling about the figure approaching the car.

“Your facts,” Rosemary kept on, “are Gradgrind facts. You’re full of smart leftist theory while your country’s fighting for its life. I suppose you think you’re being all very… individualistic. You’re a child. You parrot your Holy Trinity — thesis, antithesis, and synthesis — but you wouldn’t know a decent human being if you saw one. If we lose this war, we’ll be invaded and you’ll get a chance to compare — see your rotten little theories in practice. I thought you would have seen enough after they tore down the Berlin Wall. Oh, it was all going to be sweetness and light — and look what’s happened.”

Georgina sat back, arms folded defiantly, her smile contemptuous. “Why, Rosemary, I always thought you were proud of your self-control.”

“You undo me, Georgina.”

“Obviously,” retorted Georgina.

Undeterred, Rosemary shot back, “Tell me, why do you hate your country so much? Does that come with the government scholarship?”

“Don’t be preposterous.”

“Well, you do, don’t you? You despise England.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“No, Georgina. On second thought, I don’t think you do.”

The boy, a prefect, was tapping politely on Richard Spence’s window. Richard wound the window down, but Rosemary was either oblivious to the feet or didn’t care.

“Tell me, Georgina, do you love anything? ”

Richard Spence was trying to listen to the boy, nodding politely, embarrassed beyond measure.

“Can you say you love your country, Georgina?”

Georgina was looking out the window now, watching the boy walking away.

“Well?” pressed Rosemary.

Suddenly Georgina turned on her sister. “Are you mad? You’re raving!” Georgina looked at her father. “She’s insane!”

“Do you, Georgina?” asked Rosemary, her voice quieter now. “Not England right or wrong or right or left. But England.”

Georgina sat as far back in her seat as possible, finding Rosemary’s attack of patriotism so sickly sentimental, she felt herself blushing with embarrassment. It was all so utterly ridiculous, yet she felt as if she was about to cry and kept looking outside the car, only slightly aware of it moving, the prefect running ahead and pointing to the left of the commissary — where to park.