Winston’s War (18 page)

“Cleaning up? Is that what you call the things Hitler's doing?”

“It's omelets and eggs, and by the time the voters get round to wiping the last bit of grease from their plates they'll be too busy rubbing their stomachs to worry about a few scraps on the kitchen floor. So Hitler's breaking more than eggs, but the muckier it gets the more grateful people are going to be that you've kept this country out of it. Scotsmen don't want to go to war with Germany all over again for the sake of Jews and Communists.”

“The by-election isn't a war with Herr Hitler, it's a war between the Duchess and me. We'll be fighting on her territory. And if I lose, my credibility will be ruined, not just at home but abroad. I would never be able to look Hitler or Mussolini in the eye again. It would be a disaster. All my efforts for peace would be lost and we'd end up embroiled in the most dreadful war mankind has ever known. It's not just my record at stake, it's the survival of civilization. Don't you see? I must win that election.”

“You will, Neville. And when you do, every other rebel in the party will be on their knees either begging your forgiveness or waiting for a bullet in the back of the head. The Duchess is doing us a favor.”

“You can guarantee that?”

Ball looked slowly from the Prime Minister to his colleague, then for a moment examined a badly chewed fingernail. “Trust me. Your by-election is already in the bag.”

This was A Bad Thing and Churchill knew it. A Very Bad Thing. And like so much nowadays, he knew there was nothing
he could do about it. Yet at first it had seemed to be such An Excellent Thing.

The manager of his bank had telephoned most unexpectedly, and after the initial pleasantries—more strained on Churchill's part than was usual—came straight to the point. Had he found “alternative accommodation” for the loan? Bloody fool. “Accommodation?” What was the man running, a bank or a bed-and-breakfast place? It wasn't accommodation Churchill needed; his loan wasn't asleep, all gently tucked up. It was very much awake, like an evil monkey, perched on his shoulder. Always there when he looked round. Staring, growing heavier. So, no, he hadn't found anywhere else.

“Then I may have some good news for you…”

The manager thought he could get his superiors at the bank to agree to renew the existing loan. “With the easing of the war threat, Mr. Churchill, we are able to take a somewhat longer-term view of such matters. I'm sure you understand.”

Now he was convinced the manager was A Bloody Fool. The threat of war gone away? It hadn't left, it had only become temporarily distracted while it stuck its knife and fork into Czechoslovakia. But what was Churchill to say? He held his tongue, he needed this man. The manager might yet prove to be a Useful Bloody Fool.

No guarantees, the manager had insisted, still only a proposal, but one he would be advocating to his colleagues with great force. And he was hopeful. An Ever Optimistic Useful Bloody Fool. So could Churchill make himself available to sign the relevant documents, perhaps the following week, in London. Not quite sure precisely when, and apologies for the inconvenience, but time was short and they would have to move extremely quickly to make the deadline, otherwise…

Yet that following week he was supposed to be traveling up to Scotland to make a speech on behalf of the Duchess of Atholl.
The major speech of the campaign. The great by-election rally. Showing her electors and the entire world that she wasn't alone.

But the bank manager was both insistent and inflexible. The documents were indispensable, the signatures vital, the deadline loomed and he was sorry but he couldn't yet say precisely when next week. In spite of all Churchill's pleadings he could find no alternative.

And now he had to tell her.

The phone clicked and cracked and at last he heard her voice. “Kitty, my darling Duchess, how are things on the battle front?”

But he was unable to listen to her answers. Then he explained that he could not make the meeting. He had to break his promise. He would send her messages to publish, he would shower her with words of support and deepest affection, but he could not come to the constituency.

“Another one of the walking wounded not up to the long journey north,” she muttered dispiritedly. Her opponent had already flooded the constituency with dozens of MPs and there were more to come in the last few days of the campaign—"my constituency's beginning to look like the front hall of Conservative Central Office.” Yet it seemed that her own supporters in the Conservative Party, few in number as they were, had encountered any number of impediments to helping her. That was the word she used—impediments. She clearly meant excuses.

But this wasn't an excuse, it was…Money. Security. His home. Chartwell. Hadn't he already made enough sacrifices for the cause? Yet if the cause were so vital and urgent then surely…? But his first commitment must be to his family. They had no one else. And what of other families? Those who had already lost their homes, and would undoubtedly lose much, much more? Whichever way he argued the matter, it was of little comfort to him and would be of no comfort whatsoever to the Duchess. He was tired, exhausted by his many burdens,
he couldn't carry on being nothing more than a storm in the wilderness. So he had left her with no explanation, merely the excuse of unavoidable commitments.

His darling Duchess was on her own.

“You doin' all right down there, ducks?”

Desdemona was concerned. She'd found a right one here. He'd seemed grumpy right from the start, almost angry—and he wasn't much with words. Foreign, she thought, bit of the Wop in him. Still, he was polite—said please, even—and it was her last engagement of the day so she'd thought, Why not? It was rent day on Friday.

It was when he'd taken his clothes off that her concern began to grow. He'd undressed very methodically, not bashfully like some of her clients, nor over-eagerly either, just bit by bit, laying everything out carefully on the chair. Old clothes, neat, but probably second-hand. He was clean, that she liked, and well groomed, but as he took off his vest she saw a body that reminded her of old Bluey, the mongrel collie she'd rescued from the dogs' home who had promptly gone and got himself run over by a milk lorry. Wasn't used to roads, poor thing. They'd tried to stick him back together but he'd just pined, wasted away, all crooked, until his body looked like nothing but—well, like this chap's. Full of ribs and scars.

Then he'd looked at her and asked if she would take her clothes off carefully, too. Like they were going to bed, instead of having a quick one before she had to hand over the room to the night shift. Goodness, she half expected him to suggest they get down on their knees and start to pray. But she rather liked it. He had watched her carefully, appreciating every new area that she exposed, and although her body nowadays left a lot to be desired he seemed to appreciate it. It had been a long time since anybody, including herself, had done anything with her
body except use it. Not since Jimmy had come home on leave and she'd told him she was up the spout, and he'd acted all sort of funny, gone quiet, then walked down to the pub one Sunday dinnertime and never come back. She'd burnt the meal to a crisp, waiting for the bastard. He'd even left his naval uniform behind. She burnt that, too.

But because this one seemed to appreciate her, she found herself enjoying it, him getting down to it. Yes, the old torpedo was in the tube, as Jimmy used to say, and his engines were running. So she closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of the bedsprings and tried to get back in touch with those senses in a woman she thought had been lost with the laundry ages ago.

“You're enjoying it,” he said. And stopped.

“What's the matter, ducks? Have I done something wrong?”

“You're enjoying it,” he repeated, like an accusation. “I've…I've never had a woman who enjoyed it.”

“What, never?”

“Only pretend.”

“What, even your wife?”

“Never been married.”

“Not ever?”

“Who would marry this?” he said, indicating his broken body.

“Hey, don't do yourself down. Hell, I'm not exactly Betty Grable meself.” Then, quietly: “You always been like that?”

“Since I was very young.”

“You poor bleeder,” she whispered. “But let me tell you, ducks, don't let it get you down. I tell you, I've had—well, I know what I'm talking about, know what I mean? And I was really enjoying it with you.”

He stood up, every part of his body looking mournful.

“Now I've spoilt it. Sorry,” he muttered. “Can't seem to enjoy anything at the moment.”

She couldn't get over it. A punter who apologized. Where had this one come from? And she looked at him and he
reminded her of Bluey, someone she wanted to take care of. So she had got down on her knees, but not to pray, ignoring the bare floorboards, and had made sure he enjoyed it after all. She assured him that she had enjoyed it, too—well, only a little white lie, the sort of thing you pretend to a—friend.

“There you are, ducks. Feel better now, do we?”

And he did. Earlier that afternoon he'd been round to his former fiancée's, the nearly-but-never-to-be Mrs. McFadden, and asked for the ring back. It had cost him two weeks' wages and he saw no reason why she should keep it, particularly when over her shoulder in the kitchen he could see another man's ironing hanging out to air. He hadn't got the ring, of course, only several lungfuls of abuse. And a few tears. It had been a stupid idea, but he had nothing to lose, not even his pride. He hadn't bothered with pride, not since the camps. But he'd thought of her, the would-be Mrs. McFadden, in the middle of his session with Desdemona, because he'd never had sex with his fiancée and had begun to wonder whether it would have been enjoyable getting into her drawers. Perhaps that's why he had been so distracted. Until Desdemona had…

“Can I see you again?” he asked.

“Course, ducks. I do Tuesdays and Thursdays most weeks and—”

“No. I mean—see you. Not just sex. Maybe just for a drink.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Perhaps because I hate drinking on my own.”

“Full of compliments, you are.”

It seemed forever since she'd last talked to a man about anything other than tricks and time and money in advance, except for the occasional queer sort who wanted to talk about his wife, and anyway it was the end of her shift. So she had dickered and negotiated for some more money and ended up pushing her way alongside him through the evening crowds
that thronged the Market to the King's Head. Just round the corner, very public, where other working girls would be able to keep an eye on her, like they did for each other. She still didn't trust him; maybe he wanted to drag her off into his cave and cook her.

Standing room only in the King's Head. They leaned on the bar. “You look different,” he muttered across his pint of mild.

She was wearing a simple corduroy dress and a woolen sweater that was probably knitted at home, with low-heeled shoes and only a touch of makeup, complemented by pearl earrings and a ruby butterfly brooch that probably came from Woolies. The push-up and pull-apart gear—her “working clobber,” as she called it—was in a little cardboard suitcase at her side. “I have another life outside the Market. They don't mix.”

“Am I permitted to ask what?”

“Suppose you'd better, 'cause I ain't going to stand in the middle of the public bar and shout about me Tuesdays and Thursdays, am I now?” She leaned forward, smelling of rose water. “So Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays I work as a cleaner. That pays for the rent. Tuesdays and Thursdays is food and clothes for the kids.”

“Kids?”

“You don't think I'd do this unless I had to, do you?”

“Do they have exotic names like their mother?”

She laughed into the froth on her Mackeson. “What, Desdemona?”

“You are going to shock me and tell me it is not your real name.”

“It's Carol.”

“And the children?”

She hesitated—he'd gone a pace too far. “I'm so proud of the little blighters. Yet somehow I don't want to tell you their names. Maybe it's 'cause I separate the two parts of my life and there's a long trip in between, and I leave my kids on the other
side. They're not the sort of thing I want to talk about with a punter in the middle of the public bar.”

“I see. But if I asked you out for another drink—just for a drink—would I still be a punter?”

A smile caught the edge of her lips. “Dunno. You're a sly bugger, you are.” But already she was giving her answer, picking a small piece of lint from his lapel, building bridges.

“So, what's it to be? Dinner at the Ritz? Dancing at the Café Royal? Oysters at Wheelers?” He picked up a newspaper that had been left on the counter, folded to the entertainments section. “Or a cup of tea at Lyons Corner House and an evening at the pictures? Next week. Anything you want to see?” He handed it across.

She pushed it back. “No, you choose.”

“Can't. Haven't got my reading glasses.”

“Me neither.”

“What, an eagle eye like you needs reading glasses?” Not when she could spot stray fluff on his jacket. He pushed the newspaper back along the bar.