London Dawn (18 page)

“Ah. The very thing. Shall I see you and Lady Preston at the second breakfast or will I be on my own?”

“You shall certainly see us there, Winston.”

“I will look forward to that. Can the butler bring the newspapers up to my room in the morning?”

“Certainly. Any particular time?”

“As soon as they arrive. He can just place them at my door. I’ll keep an eye out. Though a light tap or two wouldn’t be out of place.”

“I think the butler can manage a light tap or two, can’t you, Tavy?” asked Lord Preston.

“I can, my lord. The papers will be at your door first thing, Mr. Churchill.”

Churchill nodded. “Thank you very much indeed.”

Tavy led the way down the hall to Churchill’s room. Lord Preston watched them go and reflected on how the butler and the politician had the same gait and build and height. Then he knocked gently on a nearby door and opened it.

Lady Preston was sitting up in bed reading Agatha Christie’s
Murder on the Orient Express
, glasses halfway down her nose.

“Winston’s abed,” said Lord Preston, shutting the door behind him.

“Have his feelings improved since we dined together?”

Lord Preston took a chair by his wife’s bed. “Not really. He is stoic one moment and the tears are in his eyes the next.”

Lady Preston put down her book and removed her glasses. “Do you truly believe he is finished politically?”

“Very near it.”

“Just because he warns Parliament about the German military?”

Lord Preston shook his head. “It’s more than that. He’s been backing the wrong horses all along. Supporting Mussolini till just this year. Supporting Franco in the war in Spain—when Guernica was firebombed he was accused along with the fascists. Fighting against India’s independence, fighting against granting her Dominion status in the face of strong support in the House. For heaven’s sake, he supported the Japanese in their invasion of Manchuria. And what’s freshest in everyone’s minds is his support of Edward VIII even when the king made it clear he would throw over the throne to marry that American divorcee—the whole House howled against him the day he made that speech, howled and raged like a North Sea tempest. I’ve rarely seen such viciousness. No, he’s done, my dear. The Conservative Party does not trust him, the House of Commons does not
trust him. He is left with his dogs, his wife, his estate, his oil painting, and his writing. I expect that will have to be enough.”

“But you trust him, William.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Why? When he has made so many errors in judgment?”

Lord Preston half smiled. “I don’t know, unless God Almighty is directing my thoughts and inclinations. I like Winston. I know he won’t always be in the right, but there’s a dogged determination and love of England I find refreshing. And often enough he is spot on in his judgments. The rest of us hope Nazism and Communism will simply fall apart and disappear from the earth. He knows better, and he forces us to look reality in the eyes by means of his insight and his eloquence. So I am for him despite his faults. But alas, my being for him will help him not at all in the political arena.”

“Surely you have some influence, William. You were able to make the university come around, weren’t you? James and Peter will be back at classes this fall and their suspensions stricken from the record.”

“The university is one thing, Elizabeth. The British government is an entirely different matter. Peter and James were in the right in defending Jane’s honor. Winston has been in the wrong time and time again. So now even if he is in the right about the threat of Nazi Germany, and I believe he is, no one will listen to him, and no one will listen to his supporters. Moreover, I am not close to Prime Minister Chamberlain, you know that. I do not have his ear. There is nothing I can do, my dear, except pray.”

She reached over and grasped his hand. “Then I wish you would do that, William. I read Agatha Christie to force my thoughts elsewhere, but I’m terrified at the violence Robbie and Shannon are facing in Palestine, I’m distraught over young Charles being raised and molded by that brute Lord Tanner, and I’m in a panic the war in Spain will precipitate a war in Europe. I have nightmares about those horrid German planes dropping their incendiaries on London and Liverpool just as they did on Guernica.”

Lord Preston patted her hand. “Now, now, calm yourself, my dear, no bombs are going to drop on London.”

“They bombed us in Folkestone in the last war, didn’t they? And zeppelins bombed London more than once. And those Gotha aircraft killed eighteen schoolchildren in East London.”

“Yes, of course, it was dreadful, but there is no war between England
and Germany now, nor does there ever need to be. My sources tell me Herr Hitler is concerned about being equipped to resist France and Russia. He does not consider England an enemy. We fought beside Blücher at Waterloo, remember?”

“Do you recall the last war? The Somme? Vimy Ridge? Verdun? Who fought against England then?”

“I know.”

“And if you respect Winston, aren’t you concerned about his warnings against the war machine of the Third Reich?”

“Of course.”

“Then I wish you would pray. For Robbie and Shannon and Patricia. For Charles. For our country. Pray and do my poor soul some good. Agatha Christie can only do so much, bless her heart.”

“Indeed.” He held her hand in both of his.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early.

October 12, 1937

Jerusalem

DAD AND MUM

A QUICK CABLE TO LET YOU KNOW ALL IS WELL. THANKS FOR THE PACKAGE AND CADBURY CHOCOLATE. IT REACHED US ON PATRICIA’S NINTH BIRTHDAY. SHE IS GROWING LIKE A WEED AND LOVES SWEETS. THINGS ARE TENSE SO YOUR PRAYERS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED. YOU WILL HAVE HEARD THE ACTING
DISTRICT COMMISSIONER IN THE GALILEE, A CHAP NAMED LEWIS ANDREWS, WAS KILLED BY ARAB GUNMEN TWO WEEKS AGO. WE TAKE ALL THE PRECAUTIONS WE CAN AND FEEL QUITE SAFE IN JERUSALEM SO PLEASE DON’T WORRY. SHANNON WILL WRITE YOU A LONGER LETTER IN A FEW DAYS. GOD BLESS.

MUCH LOVE,

ROBBIE, SHANNON, PATRICIA CLAIRE

November 15, 1937

Jerusalem

Patricia pointed from the terrace of their house. “That palm. That is my favorite one.”

“Ah, is it?” asked Shannon. “And why is that?”

“I like the way the fronds fall away from the top. Very prettily.”

“Very prettily?” Shannon smiled. “Well, I guess now that I look at it closely, you’re quite right.”

Robbie walked out onto the terrace with a tall glass of orange juice in his hand. “Why, that’s been my favorite palm tree for years.”

Patricia whirled to look at him. “No, it hasn’t.”

“It has. Ever since you were a baby.”

“No.”

“Doesn’t it dominate the skyline so nicely? Of course it’s much taller now than it was nine years ago when you were born.”

Patricia smiled. “You never noticed it before today. You can see beautiful palm trees in all directions. You’re just teasing me.”

“I’d never do that over something so serious. The Patricia Palm, I have always called it.”

“Always?” Patricia laughed.

“Are you packed for the road trip?”

“Not quite yet, Papa. I wanted to add a few things.”

“
Yella, yella
—hurry up! Pretty soon the driver will be honking his horn.”

“No sergeant would honk his horn at a colonel.” But Patricia raced off into the house.

Robbie offered Shannon the orange juice, and she took a long drink.

“Bless you, it’s chilled. How did you manage that? I thought the electricity was on again, off again.”

“It is. So the sergeant fetched us a block of ice, and I turned the refrigerator back into a proper ice box.”

“Bravo.” She put her arms around his neck, glass of juice still in one of her hands. “Are you really taking us to the seashore, Colonel?”

“The Mediterranean one, yes. Not the one in Galilee.”

“It’s safe and sound?”

“There’s nothing there but an army camp. The ocean will do us all good. You know, like taking a dip at Brighton.”

“I trust the water is warmer than at Brighton.”

“One can only hope.”

“And we’ll have your bodyguards along?”

“They’ll be riding in vehicles ahead of us and behind us.” He took his orange juice from her and sipped it. “It kills two birds with one stone. I need to have a sit-down with the commanding officer at the camp, and you and Pat have been cooped up in the city long enough. It’s a quiet area. There’s nothing at all worth attacking.”

“That’s grand. The fighting makes you forget how beautiful the land is.”

He kissed her on the lips. “But not how beautiful the women are.”

“You taste like orange juice.”

“So do you.”

She kissed him back. “Why are you so playful today?”

“It’s such a relief to get away, isn’t it? Even for a day. And to think of building Pat’s first sand castle, splashing her…it’s quite something to contemplate simply doing normal things in Palestine, normal British things.”

“They’re normal Irish things and normal human things too.”

Patricia suddenly appeared on the terrace, knapsack over her shoulder and a floppy cotton hat on her head. “Ready.”

“Right.” Shannon took the glass from Robbie again and drained it. “Let’s head down there, Tricia.” She glanced at Robbie. “You coming, love?”

“I just need my briefcase,” he said. “I’ll be right along.”

Robbie went to his study. His revolver was lying on the desk, and he slipped it into the holster on his hip and snapped the flap shut. He checked the documents inside his briefcase and snapped it shut as well.

“I forgot the bucket and shovel Papa got me!”

Robbie glanced out a window. Patricia was running back into the
house. Shannon threw up her hands and stepped into the car as the driver held open the door. Soldiers had parked armored vehicles in front of the car and behind it. Robbie turned away as he heard his daughter running up the staircase.

“Have you forgotten the beach things?” he asked as he stepped into the hall.

She ran past him. “They’re under my bed.”

There was a rumble from somewhere, and then the house shook, sending plaster raining onto Robbie’s head and shoulders. He heard Patricia cry out, and then a roar and a blast of heat swept through the windows and rooms. Despite a sharp pain in his leg, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered back up the stairs. Patricia was sitting on the floor holding her head in her hands.

“Are you hurt?” He picked her up in his arms. “Are you cut?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know! What’s happened?”

“Let’s get out of the house.”

“Where’s Mum?”

“She’ll be outside.”

He went down the stairs with his daughter, but not to the front street. He went out the back door to the garden. Patricia had buried her head in his shoulder and her arms were around his neck, so she didn’t see what he saw when he craned his neck to look over the wall to the street. Dust hung white in the air. The car was gone. Both armored vehicles were gone. Rolls of dark smoke rose from a large crater, mingling with the dust. Whistles blew. He heard the loud sound of many men in boots running. There were shouts.

“What is it, Papa?” asked Patricia. “What is it?” Tears cut through the grime on her face. “Where’s Mum? Where is she?”

“Shh. Shh.” Robbie walked away from the wall and farther into the palm trees and plants of the garden. “It will be all right. Don’t be afraid. Everything will turn out all right.”

November 19, 1937

Kensington Gate, London

Lord Preston stood gazing down into the fire in the front parlor.

“He’ll be home in a fortnight, the prime minster assured me. Transfer of duties. They’ll plant him at a desk here in London. Best thing for him,
really. And for little Patricia.” He glanced back at his wife. “She’ll need us, Elizabeth. How she will need us.”

Lady Preston was in a chair, her eyes dark and swollen, a handkerchief crumpled in her fist. “We prayed. What good did our prayers do? Our family has had more than its share of suffering, William.”

“All the prayers in the world won’t make this life heaven. It’s a broken place, a shattered house. Think of how Jesus suffered. Think of how the apostles suffered. It’s a pitched battle, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want a pitched battle. I want peace.”

“What makes you think Robbie or Patricia would have survived if we hadn’t prayed? What if our granddaughter hadn’t rushed back into the house? What if all three of them had climbed into the car together?”