Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs

of anger had risen in Cooper’s cheeks. ‘And what will you do when he’s turned Europe into a dictatorship? When the world is dominated by Communism and Fascism? When America is cut off from its markets, without friends? When Hitler can hold you to ransom?’

      Kennedy smiled coldly, not rising to the bait. He nodded towards the Chamber. ‘You’re gonna go in there and make a fool of yourself, Duffie.’

      ‘Stop pulling your punches, Joe.’

      ‘Hell, it’s not the time to pull punches with the situation in Europe.’

      ‘My point precisely.’

      ‘Then, as I said, it should be a fine performance. Damn fine. Gotta go claim our seats now. See you around.’ Then, in a final act of insult to the former First Lord, he turned to Bracken, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. ‘Nice talking with you, Mr Bracken. Come to dinner later in the week. I’ll give you a call.’

      ‘That would be splendid …’ Bracken replied, before realizing how insensitive he must have appeared to his parliamentary colleague. He turned to offer some words of remorse, but it was too late. He’d gone.

      

      Duff Cooper had got it wrong. He wasn’t going to be alone on the benches. When he rose to make his resignation speech, the Government whips had ensured he was surrounded by a platoon of loyalists who saw it as their duty to make his moment in the parliamentary spotlight as uncomfortable as possible. By tradition resignation speeches are meant to be heard in silence and Hansard, the official record of parliamentary proceedings, is renowned for its inability to hear insults and inappropriate interruptions even if they ring round the ancient rafters. But The Times also published extensive verbatim extracts of parliamentary proceedings, and their report was unable to hide the crude treatment Cooper received at the hands of members of his own party.

      They surrounded him, intimidated him, jeered and scoffed at him. Destroyed many friendships. Only when he mentioned the name of the Prime Minister did they cheer, then fell into sullen silence when he said that, no matter how he had tried, he couldn’t believe what the Prime Minister believed. ‘And so I can be of no assistance to him or his Government,’ Cooper continued, looking around him, eyes flooded with sorrow. ‘I should only be a hindrance.’ Growls of agreement began to rise about him like flood water. ‘It is much better that I should go.’ And Order Papers were waved like a breaking sea that threatened to wash him away. He stood in their midst like a rock, lonely, defiant, mouth dry as the abuse continued.

      Yet gradually a hush fell. Perhaps his tormentors grew ashamed, or simply ran out of breath. In any event, Cooper’s dignity at last was allowed to shine through, without interruption.

      ‘I have forfeited a great deal. I have given up an office which I loved, work in which I was deeply interested and a staff of which any man might be proud. I have given up association in that work with my colleagues with whom I have maintained for many years the most harmonious relations, not only as colleagues but as friends. I have given up the privilege of serving as lieutenant to a leader whom I still regard with the deepest admiration and affection.’

      He was looking directly at Chamberlain, who refused to return his stare.

      ‘I have ruined, perhaps, my political career. That is a little matter. I have retained something which is to me of greater value – I can still walk about the world with my head erect.’

      Only then did he sit down. And still the Prime Minister would not look at him.

      

      For a place of such eminence and influence, Downing Street was architecturally extraordinarily undistinguished. Even after the extensive renovations to Number Ten undertaken by Neville Chamberlain and his wife, required in part by the need to shore up floors that were sagging and in danger of collapse, much of the interior remained remarkably dark and cramped. A place of elves and goblins. Two of the most voracious of these goblins were Sir Horace Wilson and Sir Joseph Ball.

      Wilson’s official title was the Government’s Chief Industrial Adviser, which did no justice to his real influence. In practice he was recognized as being Chamberlain’s most trusted assistant. He had accompanied the Prime Minister on all three of his flying visits to Hitler in the previous month and had even been despatched to talk with the German leader on his own. ‘He is the most remarkable man in England,’ Chamberlain had once told colleagues, ‘I couldn’t live a day without him.’ Wilson controlled most of the levers of Government. Meanwhile his close colleague Ball controlled the political machinery. He was the director of the Conservative Research Department, the policy-making body for the Tory Party, and was also the official in charge of publicity and propaganda at party headquarters. Ironically he had turned down Guy Burgess when Burgess had applied to become an employee of the Conservative Party after leaving Cambridge. He thought him too scruffy.

      Wilson and Ball shared many things – a background in the secret services (both had been officers in MI5), virulent anti-Semitism, a passionate belief in the policy of appeasement, and above all a devotion to Neville Chamberlain that went far beyond any job description. They were formidable, and in some quarters were justifiably feared.

      Now these two eminent servants of the people sat in Wilson’s office, a small room that ran off the Cabinet Room itself. It was already dark, the curtains drawn, the only light provided by two green-hooded lamps placed on desks by the tall windows, lending a conspiratorial atmosphere which both men enjoyed. Ball had just come off the phone from talking with one of the directors of the Yorkshire Post. Not for the first time they were discussing the predilections of the editor, Arthur Mann, a persistent man who seemed determined to be impressed by the resignation speech of Duff Cooper.

      Phrases like ‘personal grudge’ and ‘loss of grip’ had littered Ball’s conversation, but he seemed to be making little headway. Mann was a notoriously stubborn anti-appeaser, the director had explained, and he wasn’t sure what anyone could do. ‘For heaven’s sake, Jamie, whose bloody newspaper is it? Why do you let him kick you around like that? For God’s sake, get a grip. No sane man wants to reconquer Berlin for the Jews.’ Ball mouthed the words slowly, hoping they might sink firmly into the other man’s mind. ‘This is a matter of survival. And not just the country’s survival, your survival as a newspaper, too. Look what’s happened to your damned advertising revenues. A summer of war scares and the bottom’s fallen out of your market. Down – what? Thirty per cent? Precisely. So long as you encourage cranks like Duff Cooper to go on whipping up war scares you can watch your profits shrivel like a baby in bath water. Nobody’s going to buy a bloody thing. Look at the economy in Germany – that’s the sort of thing we want here, not blood all over your balance sheet. You want war? ’Course not. But that’s exactly what you’ll get if you carry on crawling up the arse of Duff Cooper and his crowd.’ At last the argument seemed to have struck home, the director promised to see what he could do, and the conversation was resolved with promises of lunch.

      It had been a profitable evening’s work. Other newspapers had been leant on, too. Ball scratched his stomach, contented. By morning Duff Cooper’s obituary would be suitably disfigured.

      At that moment there came a knock on the door and a head appeared. It belonged to Geoffrey Dawson, the editor of The Times. As always in the dark corners of Chamberlain’s Whitehall, he was welcomed like a general returned to his camp. ‘Thought I might find you two old rogues here,’ he said. ‘Need to take your mind.’

      ‘And a glass of sherry, too, Geoffrey.’

      The editor made himself comfortable in a cracked leather armchair by the fireplace, wriggling in order to reacquaint himself with an old friend. ‘Just taken tea with Edward at the Foreign Office.’ The ‘Edward’ in question was Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, and it was Dawson’s custom to meet with him on a frequent basis, particularly when preparing a trenchant editorial. They were long-standing personal friends, their lives intertwined. Both were Etonians and North Yorkshiremen, High Anglicans who worshipped and hunted foxes together.

      ‘He was helpful, I trust,’ Wilson prompted.

      ‘As always. Got