Sean Gabb: The Churchill Memorandum

“Another survivor?” I asked, nearly falling down in surprise. “Someone else got out of that horror alive?” I dropped back into the armchair and reached for my cup.

“Oh yes, Dr Markham,” Powell said with the beginnings of real enjoyment. “You will be pleased to know that Mr Heath managed to hide himself in a cesspit. Its contents protected him from the worst of the explosion. Once he is out of hospital, he will confirm his resignation—the brush with death, he will say, has made him all the more determined to pass what time remains to him with the music that is the real pleasure of his life. Tomorrow morning, the Home Department will have a new Secretary of State. I spoke last night with Lord Halifax by telephone. He was pleased to accept my recommendation of Miss Margaret Roberts.”

A woman as Home Secretary ? I opened my mouth with surprise. But Powell paid me no attention.

“You may not know of Miss Roberts,” he went on. “She only came into Parliament at the Grantham bye-election two years ago. She is, nevertheless, a young woman of great promise. Everyone who has met her is impressed by her grasp of important detail and her capacity for hard work. If this country is ever to have a woman Prime Minister, one could not hope for better than Margaret Hilda Roberts.”

He paused again and got up. “But, Dr Markham, the morning will soon be over, and I am aware of the meeting that has been arranged with some lawyers. What the newspapers said about you was unpardonable. Some of it was no more than the coverage of a mistake by the authorities. But they do seem to have gone most scandalously beyond what was released to them. Major Stanhope tells me you have already been advised to settle matters out of court. I think I can predict, though, that the settlements to be proposed will be eminently to your satisfaction. I repeat that, if we do not often ask for them, the favours we do request are seldom refused.”

He paused again and looked out of the window. Was there now a slight look of worry in the blank, fleshless face?

“One matter does remain outstanding,” he said, sounding rather distant. “For all the newspapers will publish their retractions, I do accept that, for the moment, a certain damage has been done to your reputation. It is with this in mind that I have recommended you for a visiting professorship at the University of Dresden. Professor von Hayek is a personal friend as well as my opposite number in Berlin. For many years since his return to Germany, he has made a point of coming to England for a week in the spring, to spend time with me in the bookshops of York. There is a vacancy in the Department of History for an English professor, and, if I ask him, Hayek’s recommendation will be taken by the authorities as law. I hope you will enjoy many evenings of debate with your new colleagues about the often troubled course of Anglo-German relations during the present century.

“Dresden is a most beautiful city. If you have any taste for the baroque, the view across the Augustus Bridge towards the Cathedral is, I am told, unforgettable.”

I swallowed hard. This was the second time in a week I’d heard the praises of Dresden. But the meeting was over, and Powell was helping me to the door of his office.

I stepped back into Whitehall at the stroke of twelve. The sun had come out, and people hurried about in still denser crowds to an early lunch. Pakeshi was waiting for me in a double carrying chair.

“To the Savoy, my good fellows,” he cried brightly to the carriers. Even if I was rather slender, my own weight added to his made for a slow progress along Whitehall. “I did ask for a taxi,” he said to me. “Sadly, even the most estimable and understanding Major Stanhope was unable to get a dispensation from the traffic rules.” I sniffed and, despite the sun, was glad of the heating that was powered by the electricity radiated from overhead. We passed in silence through the happy crowds. I saw a class of schoolchildren looking solemn as their teacher stood beside the Cenotaph and lectured on its significance. I stared out at the new Home Office building. A combination of high renaissance and Greek revival, it gleamed white in the sun. Miss Roberts would be the first Home Secretary never to have governed from the old building.

“Did Mr Powell answer all your questions?” Pakeshi asked with a happy wave at some children who were looking at the curiosity of a brown face in Whitehall. I gave up on opening the small cardboard box he’d handed me. A properly weighted carrying chair gives the smoothest ride apart from a magnetised railway journey. Even so, this wasn’t the place for digging a needle into your arm and hitting the right vein. I thought about my meeting with Powell.

“Most of them I didn’t manage to ask,” I said. “I’m not sure if he answered the ones I did ask.” Or had he answered one? Talk about the Delphic Oracle! Pakeshi shrugged and dropped the subject. There were signs outside the Whitehall Theatre advertising a new play by Ayn Rand. Whatever her qualities as a dramatist, there was no doubt she had friends in the right places.

Trafalgar Square and all the streets that radiated from it were a solid jam of carrying chairs and rickshaws and pedestrians. The bronze mass of Leslie Barnes, the electrical genius, loomed from its plinth over the crowds of tourists who surrounded it. We made our way past the Dominion high commission buildings towards the shining new façade of Charing Cross Railway Station. Beyond that, the wheeled traffic began, and we had to wait for the correct lights before we could pass along the Mall.

“Isn’t London beautiful?” I said, breaking the long silence. Pakeshi nodded, a look of solemn agreement on his face. Yes, London was beautiful. More than that—much, much more than that—it was all so very normal . Until the morphine had kicked in the night before, I’d been kept awake by recollections of all the nonsense spouted by Macmillan’s Academy of Projectors. Thoughts of how they might have had their way with England, and thoughts that there were others, still alive, who might yet try the work of destruction, had chilled me. There might well be problems ahead. But London seemed, for the moment, unshakably normal. Everything was as it had to be. And everything would surely be as it had to be forever and ever. The Queen was on her throne. The pound was worth a pound. All was right with the world, under its English heaven. Yes, everything was as it had to be. And, if I’d nearly died to keep it that way, it was nice to think that I’d never be called on to do it again.

Oh, there’s a definite pride in duty to Queen and Country—especially after it’s been done.

Forty minutes and a 3s. fare later, I sat looking at the lunch menu inside the Savoy. Behind me, the salon orchestra played light selections from the later Schoenberg. I looked at Pakeshi, who was buried in the menu. Since I’d already thanked him for his surprise intervention at Birch Grove, there was no point alluding further to it. Since he’d politely evaded all questions of what arrangement he’d made with Stanhope, there was no point in raising that. Evidently, things had been settled with the Indian National Party. Not once had Pakeshi looked out of the rickshaw to see if there were any brown faces in the crowds we’d passed. He’d smiled happily enough at those children. But there was no trace of a hunted look in his eyes. I cleared my throat.

“I’ll speak to Hattersley later on,” I said. “But there’s no hurry. I’ll keep the flat going here in London. But it looks as if I’ll be completing the Churchill biography out of England. I’ll probably be away until Christmas.” I looked harder at Pakeshi, who was still inspecting the menu. “I suppose you’ll stay in Victory Mansions?” I hazarded. “If so, we must have lunch again when I come back for Christmas.”