Kitabı oku: «Never Surrender», sayfa 2

‘I’m sorry, sir. As I said, a matter of confusion.’

‘And you are to run, do you hear me? Every time you hear that bell, you run, not walk, for so long as this war is in progress. I will not have walkers.’

Colville swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry with resentment. Never in his public service had he been spoken to like this. Still, it made his decision all the easier. He wouldn’t put up with it for a moment longer than would be necessary to get himself a transfer. Submarines, for all he cared, after this.

‘Tell me, where did you go to school?’ Churchill demanded.

What? What had his wretched school to do with it? ‘Why, Harrow, sir. But a while after you.’

‘Ah, another Harrovian. We make good runners at Harrow. You’ll do.’

And so, through the accident of his education, Colville stood conscripted.

‘Now, get me Lord Halifax on the phone. I have an urgent letter for him to deliver.’

‘It’s gone midnight. His Lordship will be asleep in bed, I’m afraid, sir.’

‘You know that for a fact?’

‘I know His Lordship, sir.’

‘Nevertheless, get him on the phone for me.’

‘It will be a most exceptional pleasure for him,’ Colville responded, tripping over his own sarcasm.

Churchill thrust his head forward. It made him look like a cannonball in flight. ‘No, it will not be a pleasure for him at this hour. And in future it will not be exceptional, either. Pray inform His Lordship of that, and anyone else that matters.’

Without another word, Churchill went back to his work and began writing a fresh letter. Colville, his face ashen, backed slowly out of the door.

Bracken hooked his leg over the arm of his chair and began to chuckle. ‘As I said, Winston, there are so few who understand your ways. I think I’d better stay.’

Churchill’s head fell towards the notepaper. ‘Thank God there’s one person in this room who knows what to do.’

It had been like a triumphal progress from ancient times. Slowly the British army moved forward across the frontier into what, until that morning, had been the green fields and gentle canals of neutral Belgium. At every village and crossroads they were greeted like heroes. Old men shuffled forward in carpet slippers to offer them bottles of beer, with womenfolk at their side bearing baskets of cheeses and oranges, and daughters who climbed up on the vehicles with their snatches of schoolgirl English to hand out an abundance of flowers and kisses. The BEF advanced upon the enemy with lilac on their helmets and dictionaries in their pockets, and soon the songs of old could be heard encouraging them on their way – ‘Tipperary’, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’, and a new one, a tune about how they were going to hang out their washing on the Siegfried Line.

The column was closely packed, a confusion of every sort of vehicle grinding along at the pace of the slowest, but they were all heading in the same direction. North, towards the enemy. Belgian bicycle troops meandered beside the convoy, frantically ringing their bells. It was spring, hawthorn blossom blew across their path, and the British army sweated gently in the sun.

By early evening they had passed through Brussels and were making camp in an old deserted brewery outside Mechelen. They unloaded the chairs, filing cabinets and the bottles of sherry while tea was brewed. This site was to be the Casualty Clearing Station, for the time when there were casualties. But of the enemy there was no sign. Perhaps this one was going to be easy, after all.

In the evening, the padre came round with a billycan of corned-beef stew accompanied by cigarettes and a homily about the morality of their cause. Strange, Don thought, how morality had become such a moveable feast. Why, it was less than two years ago when vicars throughout the land had climbed into their pulpits to denounce aggression and offer prayers for the triumph of appeasement and Neville Chamberlain. Yet today, from those same pulpits and plundering phrases from the same scriptures, they prayed to the Almighty that they might remember their gas masks and gain rapid victory. Whichever way you read it, kneeling down or standing on your head, it simply made you giddy.

That’s not what he had explained to the Tribunal for the Registration of Conscientious Objectors, of course. For them he had displayed a morality that was clear, principled and utterly inflexible – he’d copied that much from his father. And it was his father’s God-fearing morality that he offered them, everything taken from the Book, every argument backed up by scripture and psalm. They quoted the Book back at him, all the bits about eyes for eyes and the righteousness of vengeance, but he’d spent so much more time in church and Bible classes than they had that putting down their counter-case had proved to be, quite literally, child’s play.

It troubled him that he couldn’t be entirely honest with the Tribunal. He would have liked to tell them that reasons why the world shouldn’t set out to slaughter itself were so bloody obvious you didn’t need the Bible, but that wasn’t the way the Tribunal game was played.

Don had played, and he had won. Noncombatant service. No weapons, no killing. But it troubled him more than he cared to admit that he had won only by leaning on his father’s beliefs, and that his father knew it. There was a little of Absalom in everyone.

As he tossed in distraction upon the floor of the abandoned brewery, other thoughts began to chisel away at his sense of well-being. If God moved in mysterious ways, so, it seemed, did the generals. The men of the British Expeditionary Force had spent half a year working flat out to build a defensive line of tank traps and pillboxes. They’d been assured it would be all but impregnable.

So why, at the first sign of trouble, had the generals ordered them to come out from behind its cover and move forward into a field of fire that was totally unprepared?

And let’s not turn our back on good fortune but why, during all that long first day of advance, had there been no sign of the enemy? There hadn’t been a single air attack.

As Don struggled to find some comfort on the cold concrete, one thought kept nagging at him. It was almost as though the Germans wanted them there.

At last Churchill was alone. Letters written, appointments made, officials dismissed, Bracken on his way home. The path begun.

He felt exhausted. Keeping up the spirits of others had sapped his own, and a mood of darkness clung around him. It had been a day he had dreamed of for so long, yet the reality had proved so very distant from the dream. There had been no cheering crowds at the Palace to greet him, not even curious onlookers, no one but soldiers in war garb who had stood in front of a palace that had retreated behind sandbags and shuttered windows. Then the King’s little flash of humour to cover his unease. Faces long, brimming with concerns. No victorious arrival at Downing Street. Only Bracken to lift the gloom.

How he had longed for this day! A Churchill as His Majesty’s First Minister, his destiny achieved, his father’s memory vindicated. Yet all around he found nothing but sorrows and unspoken fear. Instead of triumph, he had found his way into a tragedy.

He sat slumped in his chair, an old man, clutching his glass of whisky in both hands as if he were afraid it might fall. No one there to see him, to help guide him through the depression that emerged like a mist from a swamp to surround him. He had such a way with words, brave and magnificent outbursts that stirred hearts, but words were for others, while he was left with nothing but his own dark thoughts.

These thoughts carried him to the oil painting that hung in a corner near the bookcase. It was a portrait of his father – not a particularly magnificent piece, one that had been painted long ago in Belfast. It showed Lord Randolph small and slim, with delicate ears and a twirling moustache, his neck surrounded with a huge moleskin collar and a polka-dot bow-tie that Winston himself had adopted. The painting followed the son everywhere, almost haunting him, for it had been completed in 1886, the year of his father’s brief triumph, which had turned so quickly to endless disaster. Lord Randolph was a rising star, one of the most powerful men in the country – some said the most powerful, and he believed it. He had quit the Government in the expectation of being recalled with ever greater honours, only to find his resignation greeted with ridicule. His reputation had crumbled. So had his mind, relentlessly. Winston had been still a schoolboy, not yet twelve. So long ago, yet the pain still so fresh.

He stared at the portrait. What had his father been thinking when it was painted? Had those bright protruding eyes been able to see any of the misery that lay so close ahead? Had he felt any symptoms – had he guessed in any way that he had already set out upon a path that would lead to a slow and wretched death?

No, he could not have known. No man ever knew what lay ahead.

Tiredness gnawed away at the old man and his head sank towards the glass, still clutched tightly in his two hands. Yet as the head fell forward he was once more jerked awake. He opened his eyes to find himself staring at his father. Lord Randolph was sitting in the chair opposite – not an oil painting, not an hallucination, but body and blood, so far as Winston could tell. It wasn’t possible, of course, but …

‘Papa?’

‘What are you doing, Winston? Where are we?’

‘In my office. At the Admiralty.’

‘So, you’ve become a clerk in the navy, have you?’

‘I followed you, Papa. Into politics.’

‘Brutal game. Surprised you had the stomach for it. You were such a weakly child, always sickening for something.’

‘Politics have been my life. I entered Parliament at the same age as you, Papa. Twenty-five.’

‘Ah, all those years, but to what end?’ The father managed to sound both envious and dismissive. He began filling his amber cigarette-holder with a little pad of cotton wool to soak up the nicotine. The process seemed to absorb him, to the annoyance of his son. Instinctively the son decided not to reveal all of his hand, to keep something in reserve.

‘I have been Home Secretary and, as you were, Chancellor of the Exchequer. For five years.’

The father, who had been Chancellor for a mere five months, seemed not to hear, his attention focused on the search for a match from deep within his pockets.

‘I used your old robes, Papa, the ones you wore.’

Randolph scowled impatiently as his search continued fruitlessly.

‘And until this morning I was First Lord of the Admiralty,’ the son added.

‘Under whose authority? Who as Prime Minister?’

‘Neville Chamberlain – Joe’s younger son.’

‘What? A Chamberlain as Prime Minister?’ The eyes of the father bulged in displeasure. ‘Praise be that I never lived to see the day. Nothing but iron-mongers. Why, in my day you could buy a dozen Chamberlains for a single Churchill and still get change.’ He stared at Winston as though he were directly responsible for the devaluation of the currency. ‘So how did this young Chamberlain do?’

‘Not well.’ The son chose the words with care, speaking them slowly. ‘We are engaged in a horrible war with Germany, Papa, for the second time in my life. With flying machines and other terrible weapons that slaughter millions of men.’

‘Millions, you say?’

‘Tens of millions.’

‘My God, is it possible? Then I’m glad not to have lived to see such terrible days. But we will prevail, of course.’

Again the words were chosen with care. ‘Not necessarily. We may not prevail. And if we don’t, we shall lose not only our armies but also our empire, even our independence.’

‘Takes my breath away to hear it. Not the place it once was, eh, our England? But something always turns up. Like fresh cavalry riding out of the afternoon sun.’

‘The British cavalry hasn’t charged in anger in more than forty years.’

The father shook his head in consternation. ‘So, who is to lead us from the jaws of such adversity?’

‘I hope it will be me, Papa.’

‘You, Winston? My God, but you only just sneaked into Sandhurst by the skin of your breeches. And at the third attempt. With your school record I couldn’t even consider you for a career in the law. You, of all people?’ He tugged at his moustache in puzzlement. ‘You are an admiral? Or a general?’

‘No, Papa. But I was once a major in the Yeomanry.’

The father wrinkled his nose. ‘You were always getting yourself into scrapes. Getting beyond yourself. Like that time you fell off the bridge in Dorset.’

‘I didn’t fall. I jumped, Papa. To evade capture by my friends. I jumped onto the higher branches of a tree, but they gave way.’

‘Seem to remember you were in bed for months. And for what? It was a childish game, nothing more. No judgement, that’s the thing.’

‘There are those who would agree with you, I fear.’

‘Always sickening in bed. Caused your mother no end of inconvenience.’ The voice trailed away, diverted down a new, more gentle path. ‘So … what of Mama?’

‘She lived a long life.’

‘There were … other men?’

(Did he truly want to hear? But he knew there would have been other men. There were always other men.) ‘She married twice more.’ The son pondered telling him that they had been young enough to be her sons, the last even younger than he. But somehow it didn’t seem to matter any longer. ‘Neither of them matched up to you, Papa.’

‘Two, you say. Always a little careless with her men, your mama.’ The voice now seemed strained; Winston put it down to his father’s need for a smoke. He had still not lit his cigarette.

‘But, in the end, loyal enough,’ the father continued. ‘Can’t fault her loyalty, not through the last years, at least.’

The painful years of his father’s decline came flooding back to the son, when his brain disease had got hold of him and he had died by fractions in public. Winston himself had died a little as he watched his father being led stumbling and incoherent from the Chamber. Decay of the brain, and of the character. The Churchill legacy.

‘You have sons?’

‘One. And three daughters.’

‘Is he up to carrying the Churchill name?’

‘A father should never give up hope for his son,’ Winston responded. It was both reproach to his father and injunction to himself. His son had been named after the grandfather, Randolph, and had inherited so many of his characteristics. Rudeness, inconstancy, infidelity, lack of judgement – that’s what they said about the younger Randolph, and they had said no less in the grandfather’s time.

‘And Jack? What of him?’

‘My brother is happy. Married. A stockbroker.’

‘A stock—’ Randolph bit off the thought, but there was no hiding the disappointment. ‘Went too soon, I did. Before my time. Always wanted more sons, but your mama … There was so much more still to do, to make the Churchill name stand out above the crowd. So, you have a role to play in this war.’

‘I was with the King this evening.’

‘Which King is that?’

‘George. The Sixth.’

‘What? Two more Georges?’

‘And two Edwards.’

‘Hah! I knew the first, of course, royal rogue that he was. Once challenged me to a duel, he did. Couldn’t accept, of course, not a contest with the Prince of Wales. A pickle over some damned woman. Can’t remember her name.’

The name had been Edith, Countess of Aylesford, a woman to whom passion spoke more loudly than discretion. It had caused her to become entangled not only with the Prince of Wales but also with the Churchill family in an affair that grew into one of the most sensational causes de scandale of the time. It had pushed Randolph’s legendary lack of judgement to new and intolerable extremes, and he threatened the heir to the throne with public exposure. As a result, Randolph and his young family had been condemned to exile in Ireland and many years of royal ostracism. Winston’s first memories had been not of his beloved England, but of Dublin.

‘In my life there was but one monarch, Victoria. It gave us all a sense of continuity, of stability. But four since then?’ the father muttered in astonishment.

‘In less than forty years. And scarcely any great kings left. No Habsburgs, no Romanovs, not even a Kaiser.’

The father’s jaw sagged in disbelief.

‘There has been war and revolution in every corner of Europe.’

‘And in England?’

‘We still live as a democracy.’

‘Then there is hope,’ the father concluded. ‘I always said: “Trust the people.” Built my reputation on it. It’s only a democracy that can weather the storms of political fortune, link the past with the future.’

‘Tempests have struck with remarkable ferocity since democracy took charge, Papa. We may yet be swept away.’

‘But still a kingdom, you say? And you are friendly, are you, with the King?’

‘No, not friends. In truth, I don’t think he cares for me very much. I was too close to his elder brother, the second Edward. He abdicated.’

‘Oh, misery. A realm in which kings abdicate and enemies prevail? My poor, wretched England …’

‘Papa, these times are harder than any I have known. But perhaps you can help me.’

The sharp eyes bulged in alarm. ‘What? Not money again, Winston? Always begging for money.’

If it were so, it was another trait inherited directly from the father, but there seemed little point in saying so.

‘No, Papa, not money. Advice. I fear our country faces nothing but disaster for a very long time. What would you do, in such hard times?’

The father’s head was raised again, his impatience washing away in satisfaction that the son had acknowledged the greater wisdom of the father. ‘Well, only one thing for it, Winston. Know your enemies. I didn’t, you see, underestimated them, and so … Know your enemy. In that way you will discover how to beat him. That’s it, and all of it. So if you have the ear of the government …’ He had at last discovered a match and bent his head to light it.

‘Papa, I should tell you –’

But it was too late. As the match was struck there was a flash of considerable brilliance, and Lord Randolph was gone, the chair empty. The son was once more alone.

‘Know mine enemies, Papa? But all I ever truly wanted to know was you …’

TWO

Whit Sunday. The first Sunday of the real war.

The Reverend Henry Chichester climbed into the pulpit of his ancient parish church of St Ignatius-without-the-Walls, which stood above the port of Dover, and confronted pews that were crowded with parishioners. There was no denying it: war had been good for business. The flock grew larger with every passing month. What did it matter that these people had grabbed their gas masks and ration books before they’d given a thought to embracing religion, so long as they had ended up here?

I will have mercy, and not sacrifice: for I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance …

Time, he thought, was man’s greatest enemy. Time passes, and time destroys. There was a time when he had been a young man brimming with self-belief and optimism, before the trenches of Flanders. There was, too, a later time when he had gathered the pieces of that lost happiness through his love for Jennie, yet God seemed unshakable in His plan that Henry Chichester’s days were not to be spent in a state of contentment. Jennie had died giving birth, and had taken with her the last flakes of colour in his life. He had found many other things to fill the void – duty, obligation, ritual, the son – yet still it was a void. And it felt timeless, without end, a life surrounded by so many people, yet spent so much alone.

Behind his back they called him Bishop Brimstone in recognition of the strength of his faith. Henry Chichester was a good man, a strong and awe-inspiring preacher for these hard times, which is why they crowded into his pews, placed money upon the plate, filled the churchyard with flowers and left his surplice whiter than any summer cloud. All for faith. Yet none of the eager faces now raised in front of him could comprehend how, alongside his faith, sat failure. His life had been a litany of failure. He had failed in the trenches, simply by surviving. He had failed Jennie, too, by letting her die, and then failed as a father by letting Don go. He had even failed his God. The Reverend Chichester was not a wicked man but he knew he was a dishonest man, for while he preached duty as being the way to salvation he was aware that the only thing duty had delivered unto him these past years was unhappiness and a feeling that his soul had been placed on a bed of ice, where it had somehow become frozen, unable to move.

‘Today – Whit Sunday – we celebrate a time of accomplishment,’ he began from the pulpit. ‘When men shall go forth and do great deeds.’

It wasn’t the standard Whit Sunday sermon, but present circumstances called for something a little different. Many years ago his college principal had told him that while the Word may be eternal, a congregation’s attention span never was, so Henry Chichester had developed a reputation for his vivid sermons. But how could he inspire others when his words had long ago ceased to inspire him? He raised his eyes heavenward, but all he saw was a large patch of damp above his head that was growing steadily worse in the salt-wind storms. The roof was long overdue for repair, but what was the point when the entire building might be blown away by a single bomb? Dear God, what was the point?

‘The Whit Sunday story began a little while after Our Lord’s ascension into heaven, when the Apostles had come together to celebrate the day of Pentecost. They were alone, uncertain, worried about what the future held in store for them. And as they assembled in their small room, from the sky came a noise like that of a whirlwind and they were surrounded on all sides by leaping tongues of fire. Imagine that. Imagine how those men must have felt. In just a few weeks their Lord had been crucified, then resurrected, after which he had disappeared. And now this. Fire and chaos on all sides. Those poor Apostles must have been terrified.’ He cast his arms wide to gather in all the concerns his congregation were wearing so openly. ‘O Lord, how many of our young men in France must share that fear today.’

They wouldn’t fall asleep today. Nowhere in the country was closer to the war than this place and not a family in the town could escape it. The town was the port, and the port was the highway to a battlefield that was being fought over for the third time in seventy years. Like it or not, it was Dover’s war. All the newspapers carried large maps of Flanders, and the Reverend Chichester had cut out the map from The Times and pinned it on the notice-board in the porch alongside the brass-cleaning roster. Something to help focus their prayers.

‘Before his ascension Jesus had told the Apostles, “I leave behind with you – peace. I give you my own peace, but my gift is nothing like the peace of this world.”’ The vicar stared over his reading glasses and repeated the words for emphasis. ‘Nothing like the peace of this world. Our Lord knew that peace didn’t come naturally to this world; his message was that it would have to be laboured for – yes, even fought for. He was telling us that the crusade for Christ might involve much hardship.’

Eyes gazed up at him, the majority female, anxious, all desperate for reassurance.

‘And he told us this. In his own words, Jesus said: “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” That’s what he told the Apostles. And that is what he is telling us today.’

Mrs Parnell had seen him post up the map as she arrived for flower duty. There seemed to be more flowers this year than ever. Her eyes had brimmed as she saw what he was doing. ‘My youngest, Harry,’ she said, fighting her tears. ‘Just got his call-up papers this morning.’ She had made no complaint, simply grabbed her flowers and began cutting and arranging them with even more care than usual. It was only later he had found her sobbing in a rear pew. ‘I know, I know’ – she waved away his awkward attempt to comfort her – ‘he’s got to do his bit. But as a mother it’s so … well, you understand, of course. With your Donald.’

Reverend Chichester had smiled grimly and nodded. When his son had left, his parishioners assumed that he had gone off to fight like all the rest. It was an impression his father had done nothing to dispel. It wasn’t a lie, not at first, but it had taken root and grown to the point where his silence screamed of falsehood. But what was he to do? Admit the truth and lose the respect of all the Mrs Parnells in his congregation, just at the time they needed him most?

Or lose his self-respect, by admitting that every time he looked at his son he was reminded of Jennie and everything he had lost, and acknowledging that, in spite of a lifetime of faith and duty, he still couldn’t cope? He’d spent three years in a tunic constantly spattered with blood and he’d survived, yet inside he felt … a coward. Which is why the word had sprung so easily to his lips and been hurled at his only son.

‘Our young men are like the Apostles,’ he told them. ‘Sent out to follow in the footsteps of Our Lord and to cleanse the world from sin. May the Holy Spirit be with them, too.’

A chorus of ‘amens’ rippled through the congregation. The sun shone through the south windows into the nave, filling the church with warmth and comfort. He hoped it was an omen.

‘And let us take the words of Our Lord as our message today, when he said: “I am going away and I am coming back to you.” Coming back to you. Jesus passed through many trials and tribulations, but he came back to us – as we pray with all our hearts that our loved ones shall. May the Holy Spirit be with them, to bring them courage in all they do and victory in their task. May the Lord comfort them, keep them in His care and deliver them from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory …’

As he offered the sign of the cross and bade his flock to stand for the next hymn, his mind went back to the map on the board. He’d noticed there were no battle fronts or lines of trenches marked on it, not like last time, just the outline of a chunk of northern France and Belgium. But that was understandable, he decided. The Reverend Chichester, like so many others, concluded that the BEF was probably advancing too fast for the cartographers to keep up.

The morning had burst forth most gloriously, filled with birdsong and with the aroma of fresh spring grass still carried on the breeze. The clouds stood high and like gauze – an excellent day for cricket, Don thought, or some other game the Germans were no good at.

The old brewery in which the 6th had landed turned out to be rancid, full of pigeons and other pestilence. The task of transforming it into a Casualty Clearing Station was Herculean, and to be finished by the end of the day, they were instructed. They set about their labours with hoses and mops, encouraged by both the barks of their NCOs and the strengthening sun, while around them the local inhabitants carried on with their lives as they had always done: the milk was delivered, post collected, the children sent off to school as if war were no more than a distant rumour. And so it seemed. As the day drew on the men in Don’s unit began to relax; there had still been no sign of the enemy. Perhaps Hitler had thought better of the whole idea.

The news was brought to them while they paused for their first brew of the afternoon.

‘Right, then,’ the sergeant announced. ‘Pack it all up again. We’re moving.’

‘Where?’

‘Back.’

‘But, Sarge, I don’t understand, we only just got here …’

‘If you had been meant to understand, matey, God would have made you a general instead of a bleedin’ nursing orderly. So let’s just agree in this instance that the Almighty knows a half-sight more than you and jump to it. We move out. In an hour.’

‘We haven’t had a single casualty,’ Don complained, bemused.

‘And you’ll be the first, Private, if you don’t get off your backside …’

A wasted day. Grand Old Duke of York stuff. Yet Don found consolation. The fresh orders suggested there was an alternative plan. They were moving back towards the defensive positions they’d spent so long constructing. That had to make sense, so Don told the others. Only problem was, it seemed to involve so many filing cabinets once again.

The two men met in the middle of the huge walled garden. One bowed, they shook hands.

‘I must confess that I have been lying in wait for you, Edward.’

‘Then it is my turn to confess, sir, and tell you that I fear I’ve been avoiding you.’

They walked on, casting long evening shadows on the lawn, taking in the false sweetness of that spring. They were the two most respected men in the country, yet both victims of their birth. One was King, the other the most influential of aristocrats, and between them they represented all the powers and privileges that had kept the kingdom undiminished for a thousand years. Now it might not see out the summer.

‘Why have you been avoiding me, Edward?’

‘Because I fear I have let you down.’

‘Perhaps you have let yourself down.’

‘I fear that, too.’

King George VI walked on in silence with Edward, the Third Viscount Halifax, at his side. The two men were far more than monarch and Foreign Minister. There was an intimacy between them, a deep friendship that extended far beyond their formal roles. They and their families dined together, went to the theatre together, sometimes prayed together, down on their knees, side by side, and Halifax had been given a key to the gardens of Buckingham Palace for his own private recreation. Two days earlier he’d also been given the opportunity of becoming Prime Minister, and only because of his own overwhelming reluctance had the office been handed to Winston Churchill. Now, as they walked, Halifax’s tall, angular frame was bent low, like a penitent. A flight of ducks flew noisily above their heads, wheeling sharply in formation before crashing into the lake, where they began a noisy confrontation with the birds they had disturbed.