Sean Gabb: The Churchill Memorandum

“Jesus!” I groaned. I put a hand up to my head. Pakeshi’s operation! He’d been cutting that wireless thing out of me no more than twelve—perhaps fourteen—hours ago. It might have been days. And, at the lunch that followed, I’d been reflecting on the odd passing of time in the few days before. Now, it was even worse. I scratched my head and looked across the drive. There were three of Foot’s men, laughing and singing Party ballads as they loaded shells about the size and shape of food tins into a piece of moveable artillery. Every few seconds, there would be a loud pop and the men would jump back. There was no point listening for any of the explosions. The night was suddenly alive with the bangs and crackles of a battle joined on both sides. Other of Foot’s men took shelter behind the high brick pillars on each side of the gates. They bobbed in and out from the shelter, firing little machine guns into the darkness beyond.

There was a bang far overhead, and the sky became almost unbearably bright as another flare exploded. I heard a scream of pain and fear from one of the men at the gate. He’d fallen back and was twitching on the gravel. Sitting here, looking about as if I were a football match extra, was lunacy. Much longer in the rear of this battle, and I’d be joining Foot’s man. I staggered up and got myself back in the house. Here, with a mixture of wails and sobbing, Macmillan’s guests and his servants took what shelter they could. There was a smell of alcoholic vomit. Someone in a dinner suit was urinating against the post table. Incredibly, Kenneth Tynan had stripped off his trousers, and was abusing himself in front of Macmillan’s cook.

“Have you come to take us to safety?” a minor BBC official pleaded. “Oh, please tell us what to do!” Someone else got hold of my arm and began tugging me towards the staircase. I shook myself free and tried to think. After all I’d been pouring down my throat that evening, it was a small miracle I could even stand up. But there was no doubt I could feel a delay between everything I saw and heard and its registering in my mind. And there was no doubt I’d have been generally sharper, given better foresight than I’d been exercising.

Michael Foot—yes, Foot! I shook someone else off who was under the impression I was there to save him. Foot had confirmed there was a bomb in the house. He’d be priming it, or whatever, before he got into his helicopter and set off for his meeting. Yes—I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think straight—yes, he had his helicopter full of atom bomb stuff. Did Stanhope or anyone else know about this? Would they still be looking out for helicopters to follow once this house went up? I looked at my watch. Foot had mentioned a Russian submarine off Selsey at 1am. I tried to think harder. Birch Grove to Selsey, and perhaps five miles beyond that out to sea—How far? How long by helicopter? You might as well have asked me for street directions in Tokyo. But I looked at my watch. It was ten to midnight. About half an hour sounded reasonable, I told myself with an assurance that, if based on no evidence at all, quickly felt unshakable. That meant Foot should still be in the house. If he got his bomb going and blew us all up, it would be awful. If he got away to Russia with all that he said he’d gathered….

I stood up and swallowed. Stony sober, and I’d have laughed at myself. But I was at least three quarters cut. Between Michael Foot and the greatest world crisis since 1914 stood one timid little half- babu , eaten up with shame about his ancestry and self-loathing on account of the affections Nature had planted in his heart. “How would you respond if called on to serve?” Stanhope had asked me a hundred years and four days before in Westbourne Grove. It wasn’t a question I thought I’d ever have the chance to answer without a big, heavy stick waved over my head. What would I really do for England? I thought. I stopped myself. If called on to serve, what wouldn’t I do for MY England ? I, at least, knew which side I was on.

“Has anyone seen Michael Foot?” I said in a firm voice that silenced everyone else in the hall. “Did anyone see where he went after we all left the dining room?” One of the servants suggested he was outside amid all the shooting. That didn’t sound like the man I’d come to know. I willed the clouds to thin out and roll further back to the outer edges of my mind.

I might know where Foot had gone. Even though drunk, I broke wind at the thought of where he might be. It really was a matter of courage and shuffling the cards.

“Ah, Dr Markham!” Foot cried as I showed myself at the top of the stairs that led down to the deepest cellar in Birch Grove. “I can’t say I’ve been waiting for you. But it’s certainly in your interest to have found me.”

I looked down the dozen or so wooden steps. Bathed in the brightness of a chemical lamp, Foot was pottering about in what had become his acid room. There was a forty gallon container in the middle of the room, and another one, still sealed, over by the wall. This was a huge container, its contents indicated by a red skull and crossbones painted on it. But Foot wasn’t interested in acid for the moment. He’d just done with fussing over the box I’d noticed when he disposed of Krellburger.

“Is that your bomb?” I asked. “Do you suppose that little thing can blow this house up?” Foot grinned back at me as I went down the steps towards him. He’d picked up a canvas bag and was preparing to leave. Now, he put it down and gestured me towards him.

“The military arts really have moved on since Winston was hoping to direct them,” he said with one of his giggles. “Don’t tell me you thought bombs were still five times the size of oxygen cylinders—let alone black balls with sparklers set in them! Come and look at this.” He waved me closer, and stepped back to show his bomb. He’d slid off a cover from the top that revealed a panel of buttons and an electronic number display. The panel was now lit up a sort of green, and flashing. “ 20:17 ,” it said. “ 20:16 , 20:15 , 20:14 ,” going down by one digit every second.

“In just over twenty minutes,” Foot explained, “this will blow, and it will take most of the house with it. There might be a ball of fire and a shockwave. Or an observer outside might simply feel the ground shake and watch the dark shape of this house disintegrate. I rather fancy the ball of fire—so much more dramatic, not to mention so much more likely to divert attention from the helicopter that will have taken off a minute before. But we shall have to see.” He laughed and walked again towards the steps. He paused and looked down at his bag.

“If you’re still interested in my Boswellising offer,” he said, “the least you can do is carry my bag. I’m not displeased by your smashing up of Harold’s stupid plans. Short of what will happen in twenty minutes, it was the dramatic high point of the evening. It showed, nevertheless, an independence of spirit that you will need to curb if you wish to last long in Moscow.

“Oh—and you can bring the lamp as well. I don’t fancy tripping over bodies or disordered rugs on my way to the roof.”

It’s one thing to stiffen your upper lip and say you’ll do what England expects. It’s something else to stand unarmed beside a raving lunatic who has a gun in his pocket. I looked about for a weapon. There was nothing of any use against a gun. I could go for him once we were in the main house. Perhaps I could brain him from behind with a handy vase or bust. Perhaps I might even raise the less useless of Macmillan’s guests against him. I had to stop him from getting away. The question was how?