Ken Follett - Fall of Giants

“What?” Walter said incredulously. “It wasn’t Jews and socialists who turned us back at the Marne, twice. We lost the war!”

“We were weakened by the lack of supplies.”

“That was the British blockade. And whose fault was it that the Americans came in? It was not Jews and socialists who demanded unrestricted submarine warfare and sank ships with American passengers.”

“It is the socialists who have given in to the Allies’ outrageous armistice terms.”

Walter was almost incoherent with rage. “You know perfectly well that it was Ludendorff who asked for an armistice. Chancellor Ebert was appointed only the day before yesterday-how can you blame him?”

“If the army was still in charge we would never have signed today’s document.”

“But you’re not in charge, because you lost the war. You told the kaiser you could win it, and he believed you, and in consequence he lost his crown. How will we learn from our mistakes if you let the German people believe such lies as these?”

“They will be demoralized if they think we were defeated.”

“They should be demoralized! The leaders of Europe did something wicked and foolish, and ten million men died as a result. At least let the people understand that, so that they will never let it happen again!”

“No,” said his father.

Ethel woke early on the morning after Armistice Day. Shivering in the stone-floored kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil on the old-fashioned range, she made a resolution to be happy. There was a lot to be happy about. The war was over and she was going to have a baby. She had a faithful husband who adored her. Things had not turned out exactly how she wanted, but she would not let that make her miserable. She would paint her kitchen a cheerful yellow, she decided. Bright colors in kitchens were a new fashion.

But first she had to try to mend her marriage. Bernie had been mollified by her surrender, but she had continued to feel bitter, and the atmosphere in the house had remained poisoned. She was angry, but she did not want the rift to be permanent. She wondered if she could make friends.

She took two cups of tea into the bedroom and got back into bed. Lloyd was still asleep in his cot in the corner. “How do you feel?” she said as Bernie sat up and put his glasses on.

“Better, I think.”

“Stay in bed another day, make sure you’ve got rid of it completely.”

“I might do that.” His tone was neutral, neither warm nor hostile.

She sipped hot tea. “What would you like, a boy or a girl?”

He was silent, and at first she thought he was sulkily refusing to answer; but in fact he was just thinking for a few moments, as he often did before answering a question. At last he said: “Well, we’ve got a boy, so it would be nice to have one of each.”

She felt a surge of affection for him. He always talked as if Lloyd was his own child. “We’ve got to make sure this is a good country for them to grow up in,” she said. “Where they can get good schooling and a job and a decent house to bring up their own children in. And no more wars.”

“Lloyd George will call a snap election.”

“Do you think so?”

“He’s the man who won the war. He’ll want to get reelected before that wears off.”

“I think Labour will still do well.”

“We’ve got a chance in places like Aldgate, anyway.”

Ethel hesitated. “Would you like me to manage your campaign?”

Bernie looked doubtful. “I’ve asked Jock Reid to be my agent.”

“Jock can deal with legal documents and finance,” Ethel said. “I’ll organize meetings and so on. I can do it much better.” Suddenly she felt this was about their marriage, not just the campaign.

“Are you sure you want to?”

“Yes. Jock would just send you to make speeches. You’ll have to do that, of course, but it’s not your strong point. You’re better sitting down with a few people, talking over a cup of tea. I’ll get you into factories and warehouses where you can chat to the men informally.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Bernie said.

She finished her tea and put the cup and saucer on the floor beside the bed. “So you’re feeling better?”

“Yes.”

She took his cup and saucer, put them down, then pulled her nightdress over her head. Her breasts were not as perky as they had been before she got pregnant with Lloyd, but they were still firm and round. “How much better?” she said.

He stared. “A lot.”

They had not made love since the evening Jayne McCulley had proposed Ethel as candidate. Ethel was missing it badly. She held her breasts in her hands. The cold air in the room was making her nipples stand up. “Do you know what these are?”

“I believe they’re your bosoms.”

“Some people call them tits.”

“I call them beautiful.” His voice had become a little hoarse.

“Would you like to play with them?”

“All day long.”

“I’m not sure about that,” she said. “But make a start, and we’ll see how we go.”

“All right.”

Ethel sighed happily. Men were so simple.

An hour later she went to work, leaving Lloyd with Bernie. There were not many people on the streets: London had a hangover this morning. She reached the office of the National Union of Garment Workers and sat at her desk. Peace would bring new industrial problems, she realized as she thought about the working day ahead of her. Millions of men leaving the army would be looking for employment, and they would want to elbow aside the women who had been doing their jobs for four years. But those women needed their wages. They did not all have a man coming home from France: a lot of their husbands were buried there. They needed their union, and they needed Ethel.

Whenever the election came, the union would naturally be campaigning for the Labour Party. Ethel spent most of the day in planning meetings.

The evening papers brought surprising news about the election. Lloyd George had decided to continue the coalition government into peacetime. He would not campaign as leader of the Liberals, but as head of the coalition. That morning he had addressed two hundred Liberal M.P.s at Downing Street and won their support. At the same time Bonar Law had persuaded Conservative M.P.s to back the idea.

Ethel was baffled. What were people supposed to vote for?

When she got home she found Bernie furious. “It’s not an election, it’s a bloody coronation,” he said. “King David Lloyd George. What a traitor. He has a chance to bring in a radical left-wing government and what does he do? Sticks with his Conservative pals! He’s a bloody turncoat.”

“Let’s not give up yet,” said Ethel.

Two days later the Labour Party withdrew from the coalition and announced it would campaign against Lloyd George. Four Labour M.P.s who were government ministers refused to resign and were smartly expelled from the party. The date of the election was set for December 14. To give time for soldiers’ ballots to be returned from France and counted, the results would not be announced until after Christmas.

Ethel started drawing up Bernie’s campaigning schedule.

On the day after Armistice Day, Maud wrote to Walter on her brother’s crested writing paper and put the letter in the red pillar-box on the street corner.

She had no idea how long it would take for normal post to be resumed, but when it happened she wanted her envelope to be on top of the pile. Her message was carefully worded, just in case censorship continued: it did not refer to their marriage, but just said she hoped to resume their old relationship now that their countries were at peace. Perhaps the letter was risky all the same. But she was desperate to find out whether Walter was alive and, if he was, to see him.