Mr. Chartwell
Page 19
“… We have to go.”
A thought came to Churchill, a smile with the potency of milk coming with it. “Perhaps a revision is in order: Fiel sin importar pura animosidad: ‘Faithful regardless of pure animosity.’ ”
Fingertips made brief contact with the bridge of his nose, the smile evaporating from the reflection. “Oh, but I don’t say this with any conviction. You are a dark star in the constellation which forms me. And to fight against you is to try and fight the stars in the eternal firmament.”
Black Pat spoke softly, getting up. “If I could leave you now, if this was something in my power, I would do it.”
Churchill turned from the sparrows and their plane-tree universe, answering in a sigh. “Pah, it’s not your fault, you old gooseberry. Neither of us can break this contract.”
Black Pat stood in the centre of the room, a ghoul with watchful eyes. “It’s time. Are you ready?”
“Very nearly,” Churchill answered. “Forgive me if I take one more minute.” The cigar had fumbled itself out. Making a quick assessment he lit it, producing more clouds.
The dog’s voice came again. “Are you ready?”
Churchill took his strength in great handfuls, prepared to go to the press conference, prepared for the end of the beginning. “Yes, I am ready now.”
Black Pat padded to Churchill’s side, tail brushing his hind legs.
Churchill’s hand found the doorknob. The door pushed open. His next command was for them both. “So then, onwards.”
Acknowledgements
A huge thank-you to my friends and family, Sarah Lutyens, Juliet Annan, and Susan Kamil.
And an extra special thank-you to Simon Davison.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
REBECCA HUNT graduated from Central Saint Martins College with a degree in fine art. She lives and works in London. Mr. Chartwell is her first novel.