Michael Dobbs - Winston’s War

‘No,’ Wilson objected. ‘How?’

Chamberlain turned, his voice grown tight, enunciating every word with care. ‘But what if she wins?’

‘She can’t bloody win,’ Ball insisted. ‘She doesn’t have a friend who isn’t a Bolshie or can’t be made to look one.’

‘You’re almost as popular as God out there.’ Wilson waved a hand in the general direction of the windows.

‘The Lord giveth. And He taketh, Sir Horace.’ Chamberlain was breathing heavily, struggling to control his mood. ‘Something’s been going on – out there. I don’t know what, perhaps all this nonsense with the Jews, but it’s all wobbling.’ He picked up a cardboard folder that had lain beside his blotter and threw it down the table. ‘Hitler’s pogroms have made him look like a criminal. And us like conspirators and accomplices.’

‘You can’t possibly believe the stupid Duchess will win,’ Ball protested.

‘The News Chronicle has just got hold of an opinion poll that suggests she might.’

‘Those polls?’ Ball snorted. ‘It’s a bit of a rebound, nothing more. Like the bride coming back from her honeymoon to find a pile of washing.’ He chewed casually at a fingernail. ‘Anyway, I’ve already persuaded the News Chronicle to suppress most of it.’

Yet Chamberlain was in no way reassured. He began to stride impatiently around the long rectangular Cabinet table, leaning forward as though into a wind. ‘They don’t believe Herr Hitler. They don’t believe he has no more territorial ambitions. They don’t believe in Munich any more.’ He stopped, glaring at them, accusing. ‘Which means they don’t believe in me.’

Ball thumped the table so hard the silver and crystal inkwell jumped in its place. ‘You’re confusing the issue, Neville. We’ve never said they’ve got to like Hitler. I hate the bugger myself. Which makes what you’ve done with him all the more remarkable. You’ve extracted a more than reasonable deal from a totally unreasonable man. People understand that. You get the credit for it. And if he goes and tramples all over the agreement and half of bloody Europe, then everyone will know who’s to blame. We’re not dealing with issues of delicacy here, Neville, we’re dealing with the dregs of Europe. With Jews, with jumped-up little Austrian upstarts, with the decadent French who change their governments as often as they change their mistresses and with millions of bloody Bolshies who are sitting just across the border sharpening their knives and ready to slit the throats of everyone who’s not looking their way. Europe’s a mess. You can’t clean it up all on your own, but you have given them the chance to do it for themselves.’

‘Cleaning up? Is that what you call the things Hitler’s doing?’

‘It’s omelettes and eggs, and by the time the voters get round to wiping the last bit of grease from their plates they’ll be too busy rubbing their stomachs to worry about a few scraps on the kitchen floor. So Hitler’s breaking more than eggs, but the muckier it gets the more grateful people are going to be that you’ve kept this country out of it. Scotsmen don’t want to go to war with Germany all over again for the sake of Jews and Communists.’

‘The by-election isn’t a war with Herr Hitler, it’s a war between the Duchess and me. We’ll be fighting on her territory. And if I lose, my credibility will be ruined, not just at home but abroad. I would never be able to look Hitler or Mussolini in the eye again. It would be a disaster. All my efforts for peace would be lost and we’d end up embroiled in the most dreadful war mankind has ever known. It’s not just my record at stake, it’s the survival of civilization. Don’t you see? I must win that election.’

‘You will, Neville. And when you do, every other rebel in the party will be on their knees either begging your forgiveness or waiting for a bullet in the back of the head. The Duchess is doing us a favour.’

‘You can guarantee that?’

Ball looked slowly from the Prime Minister to his colleague, then for a moment examined a badly chewed fingernail. ‘Trust me. Your by-election is already in the bag.’

This was A Bad Thing and Churchill knew it. A Very Bad Thing. And like so much nowadays, he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Yet at first it had seemed to be such An Excellent Thing.

The manager of his bank had telephoned most unexpectedly, and after the initial pleasantries – more strained on Churchill’s part than was usual – came straight to the point. Had he found ‘alternative accommodation’ for the loan? Bloody fool. ‘Accommodation’? What was the man running, a bank or a bed-and-breakfast place? It wasn’t accommodation Churchill needed; his loan wasn’t asleep, all gently tucked up. It was very much awake, like an evil monkey, perched on his shoulder. Always there when he looked round. Staring, growing heavier. So, no, he hadn’t found anywhere else.

‘Then I may have some good news for you …’

The manager thought he could get his superiors at the bank to agree to renew the existing loan. ‘With the easing of the war threat, Mr Churchill, we are able to take a somewhat longer-term view of such matters. I’m sure you understand.’

Now he was convinced the manager was A Bloody Fool. The threat of war gone away? It hadn’t left, it had only become temporarily distracted while it stuck its knife and fork into Czechoslovakia. But what was Churchill to say? He held his tongue, he needed this man. The manager might yet prove to be a Useful Bloody Fool.

No guarantees, the manager had insisted, still only a proposal, but one he would be advocating to his colleagues with great force. And he was hopeful. An Ever Optimistic Useful Bloody Fool. So could Churchill make himself available to sign the relevant documents, perhaps the following week, in London. Not quite sure precisely when, and apologies for the inconvenience, but time was short and they would have to move extremely quickly to make the deadline, otherwise …

Yet that following week he was supposed to be travelling up to Scotland to make a speech on behalf of the Duchess of Atholl. The major speech of the campaign. The great by-election rally. Showing her electors and the entire world that she wasn’t alone.

But the bank manager was both insistent and inflexible. The documents were indispensable, the signatures vital, the deadline loomed and he was sorry but he couldn’t yet say precisely when next week. In spite of all Churchill’s pleadings he could find no alternative.

And now he had to tell her.

The phone clicked and cracked and at last he heard her voice. ‘Kitty, my darling Duchess, how are things on the battle front?’

But he was unable to listen to her answers. Then he explained that he could not make the meeting. He had to break his promise. He would send her messages to publish, he would shower her with words of support and deepest affection, but he could not come to the constituency.

‘Another one of the walking wounded not up to the long journey north,’ she muttered dispiritedly. Her opponent had already flooded the constituency with dozens of MPs and there were more to come in the last few days of the campaign – ‘my constituency’s beginning to look like the front hall of Conservative Central Office.’ Yet it seemed that her own supporters in the Conservative Party, few in number as they were, had encountered any number of impediments to helping her. That was the word she used – impediments. She clearly meant excuses.

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