Never Surrender. Michael Dobbs

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