by Rebecca Hunt
Mr. Chartwell is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Rebecca Hunt
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by The Dial Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
THE DIAL PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,
and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in the United Kingdom by Fig Tree, an imprint of Penguin Group UK, London, in 2010.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material: Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc.: Excerpt from Churchill: Strategy and History by Tuvia Ben-Moshe, copyright © 1992 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. Used with permission of the publisher. Curtis Brown Ltd., London: Short quote from Winston Churchill: Great Contemporaries, copyright © Winston S. Churchill, and short quote from Painting as a Pastime by Winston Churchill, copyright © Winston S. Churchill. Both quotes reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Ltd., London, on behalf of The Estate of Winston Churchill.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Hunt, Rebecca.
Mr. Chartwell : a novel/Rebecca Hunt
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-679-60434-1
1. Churchill, Winston, 1874–1965—Fiction. 2. Widows—Fiction.
3. Clerks—Fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PR6108.U585M7 2011
823′.92—dc22 2010015012
www.dialpress.com
Jacket design and illustration: Lynn Buckley
Jacket wallpaper illustration: CSA Images
v3.1
This book is dedicated
with love and thanks
to my parents.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Wednesday: 22 July 1964
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Thursday: 23 July 1964
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Friday: 24 July 1964
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Saturday: 25 July 1964
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Sunday: 26 July 1964
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Monday: 27 July 1964
Chapter 40
Acknowledgements
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
5.30 a.m.
Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill’s mouth was pursed as if he had a slice of lemon hidden in there. Now aged eighty-nine, he often woke early. Grey dawn appeared in a crack between the curtains, amassing the strength to invade. Churchill prepared himself for the day ahead, his mind putting out analytical fingers and then coming at the day in a fist, ready for it.
A view of the Weald of Kent stretched beyond the window, lying under an animal skin of mist. Bordered to the west by Crockham Hill and to the east by Toys Hill, Churchill’s redbrick house sat in a shallow coomb, enclosed by a horseshoe of ancient forest that opened in a long, green horizon to the south.
Although he was fully awake, Churchill’s eyes remained closed. On his back, the bedcovers pulled and folded at his waist, he lay with his arms alongside the quilted log of his body. On the other side of the house, Clementine lay sleeping in her four-poster bed. He thought of his wife, wishing to be with her.
But Churchill wasn’t alone in his bedroom; something else in the dark, a mute bulk in the corner, a massive thing, was watching him with tortured concentration.
Churchill was aware of its presence. He didn’t need to see or hear it to know it was there; he had more of a sense, an instinctual certainty when it appeared. Its eyes pressed on him hotly, imploring him to wake up. It willed him to move. After hours of waiting it ached with the desire to explode from the corner and shake him.
Churchill spoke in a barely audible whisper, not that it mattered—he knew the thing would be listening.
“Bugger off.”
There was a long silence as the thing scrabbled to compose itself. Churchill could feel it grinning filthily in the blackness. It said with unsuppressed relish, “No.”
CHAPTER 2
8.30 a.m.
In a terraced house in Battersea, Esther Hammerhans came tearing down the stairs with one arm through a cardigan sleeve, the rest flapping at her legs, and turned off the hob. The kettle stopped its screaming, throwing out hysterical clouds of steam. Esther found the teapot and filled it with hot water, some spilling over the work surface. The tea leaves had been forgotten, something she discovered five minutes later, after a wild campaign with the washing up. “Idiots!” she cursed the tea leaves, beating them into the water with a spoon.
Then she put on the entire cardigan. This seemed a good step, a positive move. A moment passed where she calmed herself; it was important to look calm. Mr. Chartwell would arrive at any minute; it was important that the first impression be a good one. She admired the yellow cabinet doors and drawers which she had scrubbed earlier, the walls painted a paler yellow and lit with a fluorescent tube on the ceiling. The dark-orange tiled floor had been mopped, pots of spices and dried herbs arranged neatly on wiped white-gloss shelves. The blue Formica-topped kitchen table was arranged with a vase of flowers, a stainless-steel candlestick there for show as if she used it every day. Sugar cubes were stacked into the only small bowl without chips. A tasteless bowl designed to resemble a cockerel; Esther had hidden the cockerel-head lid in a drawer.
Esther went to the mirror hung near the window and examined herself, seeing a wispy, long-haired person with a delicate underbite. She had always been slim, slimmer now and a bit bare with it. The mirror returned a smile which expressed fatigue, a varnish of melancholy painted behind the features. The general package, Esther decided, would not benefit from further examination.
The boxroom she wanted to rent didn’t have many things but it did have a garden view. Light mobbed every crevice from the first gloss of daybreak, and this would flaunt the room’s extreme cleanliness. The carpet, meticulously hoovered, had come up well and showed its brilliant ochre colour, the colour of a toy lion. A decorative earthenware tile hung on the wall above the bed—a painted scene of a hillside village in Greece, the white cottages whirling with violently green-and-orange foliage, thick black lines everywhere as if drawn with a thumb. Her friend Beth had loaned her a single bed, a very modest and old bed which didn’t look so humble when dres
sed with fresh sheets and blankets. The lightbulb was decorated with a woven wicker shade, purchased last week, which Esther felt gave the room a sense of style. A new wardrobe completed the room’s transformation into a bedroom. If necessary she would throw in the occasional use of her car.
But—disappointment—only one note of interest had answered her advert, silently hand-delivered yesterday evening from a Mr. Chartwell requesting a viewing in the morning. The lettering was savage and strange, pressed so hard into the paper the commas were torn through. It seemed to Esther this note had been written by someone deeply unfamiliar with a pen, someone who held it like a pole they wanted to bang into the ground. Finding the note, Esther had creased it in a fist, stunned suddenly at the idea of sharing her home, the idea of the intrusion making her gently seasick.
Maybe, thought Esther, now in the front room at the record player, she should put some music on to insinuate that she was a hip landlady as well as a calm one. Mr. Chartwell was probably a music fan; he would appreciate the charts. The Rolling Stones were number one with “It’s All Over Now,” and Esther had bought the single. She busied herself with this task, supremely confident. With the needle on the record, the song blared at an obscene volume, Mick Jagger’s voice screaming through the tissues of her head. Esther snatched the needle off.
The music was abandoned and silence restored. Then, just as quickly, it was overthrown.
The doorbell buzzed. In the kitchen, Esther stood motionless, feeling the hoof-kick of nerves. A few seconds passed. The doorbell called again.
“Right, here we go, I suppose,” she said to a photograph of Michael on the windowsill. That funny chin angled left, broad-shouldered in a blue denim shirt, the top two buttons undone. His big face was captured in a moment of serenity, grey eyes trained on something beyond the sights of the camera. Esther imagined what he would say to her and then his voice was in her ears, summoned from a library of memories, talking as if through a seashell. He made a few comments, all practical. His words were encouraging, so she stayed there, listening. I miss you, Esther said to Michael. He whispered something, a hand on her cheek. Then the doorbell issued its instructions with new ferocity. Michael clicked off. Esther went to let Mr. Chartwell in.
The first thing she noticed was that Mr. Chartwell was a colossal man. He filled the porch with the silhouette of a mattress, darkening the pane of frosted glass. As she walked towards the front door a weird odour developed and intensified, emanating from the doorway. It smelt like an ancient thing that had been kept permanently damp; a smell of cave soil.
Esther’s instincts transmitted high-frequency pulses of intuitive information. They told her that someone odd and kinky awaited her, someone with a rare kinkiness that rode off the spectrum. They told her to hide. But hide where? There was nothing in the hallway to dive behind, it was a wasteland. And what about their appointment? Her dutiful feet pushed forwards.
Opening the door was as violently traumatic as anything could conceivably be, the shock of it blasting out like a klaxon. Esther mashed herself against the wall. She watched with billboard eyes and didn’t move.
Mr. Chartwell’s black lips carved a cordial smile. “Mrs. Esther Hammerhans?” He extended a paw the size of a turnip. “Hello, I’ve come about the room.”
CHAPTER 3
9.00 a.m.
His fur brushing against her arm as he moved past, Mr. Chartwell went down the hall into the kitchen and stood with his ears pricked attentively. He waited there alone. Esther had stayed uselessly by the front door. This was a textbook response, expected. He listened. The noise of a small footstep. Good, she was edging towards the kitchen after him. Here she came, but taking forever. A headache of adrenaline would blossom as she crept nearer, and, yes, now he could smell it.
Esther stared from the doorway with a blank face as Mr. Chartwell poured a cup of stewed black tea. His tongue fell into it and made quiet and industrious progress. He placed the empty cup back on the table and gazed out the window, mild and horselike, pretending to admire the view. It was his polite way of giving Esther time to come to terms with the situation. He knew it wasn’t easy. Then he turned to face the landlady with an expression that said, I know what you’re thinking, but what do you say we just ignore it? The expression also said, Hi there!
Seeing his head move, Esther made a jerk, hands raised over her face.
“Nice garden,” said Mr. Chartwell. “Do you grow vegetables?”
Esther looked at him over a network of fingers. Then the fingers slowly lowered. Terrified, she spoke with all the pepper of lettuce. “I’m sorry … I’m sorry, but you—”
Mr. Chartwell nodded with disappointment; it disappointed him that they couldn’t ignore the situation as he had hoped.
“You’re …”
More disappointed nodding.
“… a dog.…”
Mr. Chartwell’s answer didn’t sound unfriendly. “Yes.”
There was a long, silent period where nothing happened. “You’re really enormous for a Labrador,” Esther said finally.
“I’m not a Labrador.” Mr. Chartwell leant back against the kitchen counter and folded his arms. He seemed fairly relaxed.
“Are you a ghost?” Esther found a chair at the table and blindly fell into it. “… Some sort of ghost?”
Mr. Chartwell said, “It’s pretty obvious I’m a dog. We established that two seconds ago.”
Esther didn’t know what to say; she didn’t think to say anything. Her eyes moved in steady repeating laps from his head to his feet. Reaching his feet, her eyes leapt to his head, and began their journey again.
Mr. Chartwell was unmistakably a dog, a mammoth muscular dog about six foot seven high. He would have been shorter standing on all fours, but was balanced comfortably on hind legs, his inverted knees jutting backwards. He did look similar to a Labrador, with the vast barrelled chest and stocky limbs built to move over rough and difficult terrain, but a heavier-set and strikingly hideous Labrador. There was nothing decorative about him: His short black fur was dense and water-resistant, his broad face split by a vulgar mouth. The monstrous grey tongue dangled, droplets of saliva spilling onto the floor.
Esther took this all in slowly, the horror of him mesmerising. Her fear began to ebb at the sides. The more she looked the more it ebbed. It melted into a passive state of alarm. Mr. Chartwell let her look, although it made him uncomfortable. He wiped a white rope of drool from one crêped lip. There was no way of doing this with any decorum.
Eventually Esther could trust herself to speak to the animal again. “Are you going to attack me?”
“Not much.” Mr. Chartwell said this with disdain.
A pause.
Esther whispered at him, “You’ve come about the room?”
“I have,” said Mr. Chartwell, pleased they were finally on the right subject.
If she didn’t cling to the chair with straining knuckles, Esther felt she would drop and explode over the floor like a collapsing pipe of ash. “You want to rent my room?”
Mr. Chartwell nodded. “I’m keen to move into this area.”
“For how long?” Esther said, and then added immediately, “Why?”
“Not sure, a few days,” answered Mr. Chartwell, not telling her why.
Esther said truthfully, “I’m really looking to rent out the room for longer than that. A few days is a bit inconvenient.”
“It might be longer, maybe a couple of weeks, perhaps a week.” He broke off. He went over her with his eyes. “We’ll see how it goes,” he said quietly. “But regardless”—his voice was loud and persuasive now—“I am able to offer you a unique short-term deal which will make it very convenient.”
There was another pause. Esther looked at him. This was a ridiculous thing to say: Nothing could make it convenient.
Mr. Chartwell continued. “For the duration of my residence, Mrs. Hammerhans, as recognition of the inconvenience of such a short rental, I can offer you a bulk payment.”
> She asked how much. She had to. He was waiting for it.
Mr. Chartwell picked from a jackpot. The charismatic chat-show host, he said, “One thousand pounds.” Was it too high? But too late now.
The shock crawled over her face. One thousand pounds was a massive sum, a staggering amount. Esther’s annual salary as a library clerk at Westminster Palace was only five hundred pounds. The beast knew the power of his deal, nodding with half-closed confident eyes, watching her wrestle through the financial possibilities.
But then came a spike of doubt. Where was this money?
“Have you got it with you?” Esther asked. It seemed unlikely. It seemed suspicious.
He repeated quickly, a paw directed at her, directing her to be ambitious, “One thousand pounds!”
Esther’s eyes pinned him, wanting to ask how a dog could come by that much money. She said nothing for fear of menacing their fragile peace. “Sorry, are you sure? It’s just that it—”
He interrupted. “I’m sure. One thousand pounds, yes.” He canted forwards. Another few inches forwards. Esther didn’t argue.
He spoke again. “Well, that’s the offer. So could we see the room?”
Esther frowned, thinking about this. He wanted to see the room? Let him. What could she actually do to stop him? If he came at her she would be powerless to fight him back. Pitched against him in a struggle, she would be like a sponge thrown against the teeth of a chain saw. She gestured for him to follow her up the stairs.
Esther opened the door to the boxroom. Her head jolted and met the wall as he went past her, assaulted by the stench of cave soil. Mr. Chartwell threw back the crocheted blanket and sheets, testing the mattress underneath with firm jabs. It was found to be satisfactory. The wardrobe door was pumped open and shut several times to check the action. His head disappeared inside to assess the storage space.
Esther said, “Well, this is it. This is the room.”
Mr. Chartwell’s eyes were busy. They rested on the rosewood desk against one wall, the wooden chair placed beneath it. The chair held a ruined cushion lined with creases, the filling worn thin. Efforts to whack it into a regular shape were hopeless but it would never be thrown away. The desk carried a regiment of pots full of pencils, pens, and trivial antiques. In one pot an ancient stick of rock, in another a plastic toy cow and a drumstick painted with a face. There was a peeled twig among the pencils, a compass and a little ivory carving next to it. Stained rings on the wood showed a history of hot drinks. The desk was a museum. Mr. Chartwell’s paws went to a drawer and twisted the handle. The handle was loose and he rattled it fondly. He stopped himself.
