Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs

      ‘But we have friends in Europe. Friends who still have great armies.’

      ‘Like the Poles? They have very fine cavalry, Burgess, and as you may know I have a particular love of cavalry. Why, I myself had a part in the last great cavalry charge ever made by the British Army. At Omdurman. Oh, that was a splendid piece. But there we faced an opponent armed with spears, not artillery and machine guns.’

      ‘I was thinking more of the French.’

      ‘You forget! The surrender at Munich was signed not only by Chamberlain but also by Daladier.’ He slurped vigorously at his glass of claret. Burgess followed him. It was a fine vintage, better than any Burgess could afford. A little of it dribbled from the glass onto the front of Churchill’s boiler suit, which Burgess noted bore the stains of similar encounters. Churchill was not elegant when he ate. There was too much energy bottled up within him, too much impatience to give much heed to manners. ‘The French have vast armies,’ he continued, ‘but that’s been true since the time of Napoleon, and yet they have gone down to one miserable defeat after another, as if the habit of losing has become an infection.’

      ‘Do you discount Russia?’

      ‘Ah, the Bolshevists! How I hate them. They are butchers.’ A forkful of ham waved in Burgess’s direction. ‘But I dare not discount them. They exist and by God they put the fear of damnation into all those around them, Hitler and his Huns, too. Stalin’s capacity for slaughter knows no bounds, but he’s been too busy slaughtering his own to have time or temper for turning against Berlin.’

      ‘They could never co-exist, Russia and the Fascists.’

      ‘Perhaps you are right. Maybe Russia is the answer, but if so it only shows us the terrible nature of the questions we are facing.’ Suddenly Churchill’s eyes darted across the table like arrows. ‘You one of those Communistic types, Burgess? I hear there’s a whole nest of ’em inside the BBC.’

      ‘At Cambridge, like so many others. There seemed no other choice if one wanted to stand up to Fascism. But that was a long time ago. People change. I seem to think you were still a member of the Liberal Party in those days.’

      ‘No. I had switched back to the Conservative cause by then. But I take your point.’

      ‘There is nothing worse than a fixed mind and closed eyes. While I was up at Trinity our esteemed Mr Chamberlain came as the guest of honour to our Founder’s Feast. He was Chancellor of the Exchequer then, of course, and we put on the full works – college silver, six courses, including the fatted calf. He was exceedingly reassuring. As the port circulated he told us that we need not worry, there was no hunger about, not even amongst the unemployed. Those were his exact words – not even amongst the unemployed. You’ll remember the times. Two million in the dole queues and hunger marches the length of the nation. Yet Chamberlain couldn’t see them. I almost threw up.’

      ‘Yet you didn’t. You look like a man with a strong stomach.’ Churchill almost smiled, recognizing a man whose capacity in those quarters might even be a match for his own.

      ‘No, I didn’t throw up. Instead I stood up. Started shouting. Called him an ignorant provincial ironmonger. The dining hall at Trinity has an amazing echo. Caused one hell of a scene.’

      ‘Ah, but now the crowd gathers to cheer him.’

      ‘Should’ve been a lynch mob!’

      They had both consumed too much claret for subtle jibes and there was no hiding the vehemence of the younger man’s words. Churchill remained silent for a moment, staring intently, and Burgess thought he might have gone too far.

      ‘We have much in common, Burgess, you and I.’

      When next the younger man spoke, his voice betrayed a tremble, not of sycophancy but of a passion that sprang from deep within. ‘I fear for my country, and I fear for the entire civilized world. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to stop the spread of Fascism. And with all my heart I can tell you, sir, that at a time such as this there is no one in whose company I would rather be.’

      Churchill’s voice crumpled with emotion. ‘Then, as you say, I am not alone.’

      He was up from the table now, a fresh cigar between his lips, and gazing out through the windows that stretched from floor to ceiling.

      ‘I had always thought I should retire here, Burgess. Spend my final days gazing out over these fields.’

      ‘I hope you shall. When the time comes.’

      ‘Whenever the time comes, I fear it will not be here.’ Churchill sounded as if he were saying goodbye to an old friend. ‘It seems that Clemmie and I shall have to leave.’

      ‘For safety?’ It didn’t take a military genius to recognize that Chartwell sat directly beneath the bombing path to London.

      Churchill shook his head sadly. ‘It is one of the many ironies littering my life that it is the very lack of war that may force me to leave my home, Burgess. It’s no state secret that I have been neglecting my financial affairs in recent times – I have been devoting myself to politics, even though politics have so steadfastly declined to devote themselves to me. The vast majority of my income is generated by my writings, but the books and articles that should have been written have remained locked up in my mind.’

      ‘But you said the lack of war …’

      ‘A few months ago I was forced to place Chartwell up for sale. It almost broke my heart. I have created so much of it with my own bare hands, I love it without reservation. But as I despaired, another policy presented itself to me. If war were to break out in Europe, the value of everything in this corner of the world would be crushed, while investments in America would rise to ever greater heights. The New World refreshing the Old. It’s a policy that appeals to me; as you probably know my mother was American.’ Churchill’s mother, Jennie, had been a New Yorker who pursued life with a remarkable vitality that had encompassed three husbands and a multitude of more dubious liaisons. The first of her husbands had been Churchill’s father, who had been a classic example of ducal degeneracy, and they had both neglected their son as sorely as they neglected each other, yet Churchill clung to the wreckage of their reputations like a man adrift. He was at a side table now, pouring substantial cognacs. ‘So I took Chartwell off the market and, in the expectation of war, invested every penny I could raise in short-term stocks on Wall Street. I should by now be sitting on a small fortune.’

      ‘But Chamberlain comes crawling back from Munich …’

      ‘An umbrella torn to pieces by the storm. We seem destined to cross each other, Chamberlain and I. He beat me for the leadership of our party, then ignored my claim to office in his Government. He has tried to isolate me, now he may succeed in crushing me.’

      ‘Because there is to be no war.’

      ‘Not soon enough for my investments.’

      ‘What will you do?’

      The lower lip jutted forward. ‘Comfort myself in the knowledge that he is wrong, and that in the end I shall be proven right. And hope I may still be alive when that happens. Try to find consolation in the thought that – in war – buildings such as this have a value no greater than the pile of rubble they leave behind.’ There was an unmistakable dampness in the pale blue eyes.

      ‘We can always rebuild bricks and mortar, Mr Churchill, but we can’t replace your stubbornness and your eloquence.’

      ‘Words, words, words – when we need armies. Weaponry!’

      ‘Mr Churchill, at the moment your eloquence may be the only weapons we’ve got. You have to go on.’

      ‘One man against the world?’ He shook his head. ‘Here I am, an old man, out of office for a decade.’

      ‘But with a pride in freedom and a belief in the majesty of a man’s right to choose that is the measure of any man I’ve ever met.’ Burgess began to beat his chest. ‘Mr Churchill,