by Phillip Rock
“No, dear. He jumbled the facts and wrote things that are unfair and uncalled for. That, my boy, is one facet of British journalism that takes getting used to. I’ve been tarred with the brush once or twice and I simply gritted my teeth and ignored it.”
“I’d like to shove this paper up his … nose!”
“Revealing that you’re upset would be more grist for their mill. And they go just so far, you see. They know the libel laws to the last dot and comma.”
Nothing libelous, he was thinking as he walked away to try and cool his anger. Jamie had been a chauffeur and his mother had married him. The fact that his stepfather had been a chauffeur before the war and a noted aeronautical engineer when he had married his mother had not been mentioned, but didn’t have to be. They had printed no lie, just a snide smearing of the truth.
Flashbulbs popped along the edges of the crowd. Colin could see several press photographers standing on the town hall steps, taking pictures of the demonstrators and an approaching cavalcade of gleaming black Daimlers. He recognized one of the photographers as the man who had taken his picture in Haddlesfield. And then he spotted Dalbert T. Archer among a group of reporters waiting behind the police line at the curb for the arrival of the motorcade bearing Lord Runcy and the Board of Trade ministers. Still clutching the tightly folded and twisted newspaper, he shoved his way through the throng.
The reporter seemed amused by his lanky, angry presence.
“All in the spirit of fun, lad. That’s what Foto-Mail is all about. We mustn’t take ourselves too seriously.”
Colin shoved the newspaper at him. “Do you know what you can do with this bilge?”
The reporter flinched. “I know what you can ruddy well do with it, Yank. You can ruddy well stop poking me in the chest with it. Now hop it, I’ve got work to do.”
“Work? Is that what you call it? More like shoveling shit if you ask me!”
One of the policemen turned and gave him a stony look. “Now, now, lad. Mind your tongue.”
“Not easy to do, is it?” Archer sneered. “All you ruddy Americans have big mouths.”
He neither hit the man nor pushed him. What he did was toss the newspaper at him, and Dalbert T. Archer, startled by the move, jerked his body backward, slipped on the wet pavement, and went down hard on his bottom. The policeman saw only a member of the press on the ground and the tall young man—obviously one of the marchers—standing over him in what he would later describe to a magistrate as “… a threatening manner.” The policeman was a large, experienced man and he put an armlock on the perpetrator and hustled him quickly from the scene.
IT TOOK DULCIE three hours to find out what had happened to him, and another hour to locate a solicitor that she knew. It was late in the afternoon when Colin was brought before a magistrate and informed that D. T. Archer, journalist, of Foto House, Fleet Street, London, had pressed charges against him for assault. He was released without bail to the custody of his family.
The solicitor was wryly amused. “I saw your Mr. Archer. There wasn’t a mark on him.”
“Because I didn’t hit him,” Colin said bitterly. “Never laid a hand on him.”
Dulcie slipped her arm around his waist as they walked from the building. “I believe you, darling. You mustn’t get upset by this. I’m sure he’ll drop the charges after they get a bit of fun out of it. We’ll give Jacob Golden a ring. He’ll know what to do. Who owns Foto-Mail, Dan?”
“Part of Lord Rotherlow’s chain now, I believe,” the solicitor replied.
“Jacob must know the man. All publishers belong to the same clubs. He’ll set things right in no time.”
“Sure,” Colin muttered.
He felt angry and humiliated. It was raining harder now and lights were going on in Deansgate and John Dalton Street, watery blobs in the gathering dusk. A gray city, cold and bleak. He thought fiercely of La Jolla … the bougainvillaea spreading crimson across the whitewashed walls of the house. The palm fronds rustling in the wind and the surf booming against the cliffs of that beautiful coast. Homesickness crushed him like a blow to the heart.
“I’d like to go home, Dulcie,” he said softly as they got into the car.
“Yes, dear. It’s not too long a drive. Agnes will have the fire lit and we’ll have a good hot cup of tea.”
He looked away from her, smiling thinly at the rain-streaked window. His people and his heritage, but he would never understand the British if he lived for a thousand years.
9
THE TWIN-ENGINE DE Havilland came in low over the outskirts of London and landed at Heston Aerodrome five minutes ahead of the plane bearing the prime minister. It was five thirty in the afternoon, September 30. The de Havilland, painted a pale green with the words DAILY POST stenciled discreetly on the sides of the fuselage, taxied slowly across the tarmac toward the hangars, keeping well away from the huge crowds waiting in growing excitement for Neville Chamberlain, their paladin of peace.
“Bloody well makes me ill,” Thompson grunted, loading the Contax he had bought in Munich. “Look at the silly bastards. Cheering their ruddy heads off. If there was half a mind among the lot of ’em they’d be getting ready to hurl eggs at the old gaffer.”
Albert Thaxton was the only other passenger. Dr. Goebbels, in a grudging concession to the cause of Anglo-German good will, had permitted “that Jew rag” to send one reporter and one photographer to the Munich meeting.
“They don’t understand,” Albert said.
“Don’t they just!” the photographer sneered. “What my dear old mum would have called lily livered. Ye yeomen of Little Britain … the thin yellow line!”
Half the press corps in the British Isles was at Heston, and Albert could see no point in his staying. What could he add to the coverage anyway except his own dark and bitter view? The cheering of the crowd sounded like a great wind threshing a forest. The Lockheed Super Electra had just rolled to a stop in front of the terminal building and Chamberlain was emerging. He had rarely flown, one of his aides had told Albert, and had found the flight to Germany in the luxurious Lockheed plane most exciting. “As thrilled as a boy,” the aide had said. He wondered how thrilled he was now. Ecstatic, he supposed, with that piece of paper in his pocket. Hitler’s signature, as solid as Keats’s—which had been writ in water.
ALBERT TOLD THE Daily Post driver to let him out at Hyde Park Corner and to leave his bags at the paper. Crowds were streaming down Constitution Hill toward the Mall. He joined them. He had been in at the beginning of this mission to save England’s green and pleasant land from Hitler’s wrath and he supposed it was only fitting that he witness its ignoble conclusion. He managed to get through the crowds packed into Horse Guards Parade by showing his press credentials to a police sergeant and enlisting his aid. The burly man cleared a path for him all the way to Number 10 Downing Street.
“Well, well, if it isn’t A. E.,” said a correspondent from Picture Post. “Enjoy your German holiday?”
“Not overly.”
“I wouldn’t be too depressed by it all, Thax. There’s a bright side, you know. Euphoria can fade quickly … and perhaps we’ve bought a little time. I had lunch with Winston. Those are his words.”
“They won’t give much comfort in Prague tonight.”
There was a long delay before the prime minister arrived. He had been met at Heston by the Lord Chamberlain who carried a message from the king, an invitation to Buckingham Palace. But the more ecstatic crowds thrust their way into Downing Street, and when his car finally appeared the singing began, warm and heartfelt …
For he’s a jolly good fellow!
For he’s a jolly good fellow …
“Good old Neville!” went the cry.
The prime minister hurried through the door of his residence and then a short time later his storklike form appeared in an upper window. He waved a sheet of paper at the crowd and called out in his reedy voice: “My good friends, this is the second time in our history that there has com
e back to Downing Street peace with honor. I believe it is peace for our time.”
The man from the Picture Post frowned. “When was the first occasion, Thax?”
“In the eighteen seventies. Disraeli had a meeting with Bismarck … I’m not sure what it was about. Leave it to Neville to choose the obscure.”
He tried to clear his mind of it as he walked back to Hyde Park Corner. There were groups of delirious celebrants going into the park, streaming along the moonlit paths, past the slit trenches and the sandbagged guns. A banner had been tied to the iron railings at Albert Gate …
GOD BLESS YOU, NEVILLE!
OUR THANKS
NO MORE WAR INTERNATIONAL
He paused for a moment to look at it, thinking of Jennifer Wood-Lacy. When he reached Knightsbridge he went into a pub and looked up her name in the telephone directory … J. Wood-Lacy, Mayfair 5672 … no address listed. He called, shielding the instrument with his hand to try to deaden the noise of the place. Some young soldiers, looking embarrassed and half drunk, were being plied with drinks by a group of boisterous businessmen wearing red, white, and blue rosettes in their buttonholes.
“Hello?” she said.
“Jennifer Wood-Lacy? Albert Thaxton. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all.” There was a pause. “Are you at a party?”
“No. I’m in a pub across from Knightsbridge Barracks. There’s some sort of victory celebration going on. I’m not part of it, but I may have a large whisky just the same.”
“When did you get back?”
“This afternoon … one jump ahead of the prime minister.”
“I see.” Another long pause. “You can have your drink here if you’d like. I might join you.”
“I would like that very much.”
“Fifty South Audley Street. Shall we say half an hour?”
“Half an hour it is.”
A large woman at an upright piano began to sing “I Didn’t Raise My Boy to Be a Soldier.”
“Have fun while you’re waiting,” Jennifer said before hanging up.
He took a taxi to South Audley Street. She lived in a concrete building of modern design on the edge of Grosvenor Square. A porter took him up in a small elevator and he walked along a thickly carpeted hallway to her apartment. When she opened the door he was slightly taken aback by the sight of her. She looked even lovelier than he had remembered. Her hair was shorter to begin with, and she was wearing a silk hostess gown that could have been made only in Paris.
“How lovely you look,” he murmured.
“Thank you.”
He was suddenly conscious of the fact that he hadn’t changed his shirt in two days and that there was a coffee stain on his tie. “I … just got in,” he said lamely.
“So you told me.” She gestured him into the apartment. “Please. I rarely entertain in the corridor.”
He glanced about the drawing room as she mixed the drinks, a gin and tonic for her, a whisky for him. “Posh digs you have here.”
“Vicky’s taste. Very Syrie Maugham. I prefer Sheraton and good, serviceable, country-house English.”
He accepted a large, potent-looking glass of whisky. “You look rather more Parisian salon than country house in that dress.”
She touched the flowing chiffon. “This? Oh, just something to lounge about in.” She sat on the sofa, he in a chair. “I want to thank you for the rose.”
“Ah, the rose. That seems an age ago. I hope Dodds picked a nice one.”
“It was beautiful. He has good taste in flowers.”
“The best to the best.” He raised the glass, squinting at it. “Strong-looking stuff.”
“My grandfather’s stock. He buys it in Scotland by the barrel. It’s what the crofters drink on hard winter nights.”
He took a sip. It coursed through his body like flame. “It must give them the feeling they’re in the tropics.”
“Pure malt, Grandpapa told me. I don’t know very much about Scotch whisky, but Vicky’s boyfriends seem to like it.”
“She must have some two-fisted friends.” He took another small swallow. After the initial shock, this one had a mellow charm. “This would appear to be a good day for the peace movement. I’m surprised you’re not out celebrating the triumph.”
“Is that what it is?” she asked, frowning at her glass.
“To some people. They were romping through Hyde Park with banners. I’m glad you’re not among them.”
“I resigned today. Tore up my pledge.”
“And may I ask why?”
She eyed him for a moment, her expression somber. “It’s hard to explain … even to myself. But I feel a sense of shame at what we’ve just done. They trusted our honor and commitment and we sold them out.”
He downed his drink. “Peace at any price. No one said it would come cheap.”
“What have we bought?”
He shrugged, toying with his empty glass. “A little time, perhaps. That is, if we look at it that way and do something about it.”
“We’re not dealing with a sane man, are we?”
“Hitler? Biting carpets and all that? That’s too simple a judgment of the man. It raises false hopes of his going round the bend at any moment and being carted away in a straitjacket. The true horror of the man is his icy sanity. There are no demons howling in his head. No delusions. He knows he’s the savior of Europe … the founder of a super race. He’ll go about creating his new order with all the zeal and righteousness of a Torquemada.” He held out his glass. “May I have another one of these? Those Scottish crofters must have some grand times.”
“Help yourself.”
He stood up and walked, a trifle unsteadily, to the sideboard. He had not, he suddenly realized, slept a wink in the past thirty-six hours. He poured two fingers worth. “I’ll be going in a minute—I’m really out on my feet. Would you have dinner with me tomorrow?”
“I’d love to.”
“Marvelous. I talked with Martin before leaving Munich. He’s planning a broadcast to America at the BBC. Air time midnight. He’ll be interviewing Churchill, Jacob Golden … one or two others, including myself. I think it should be interesting. We can have dinner at, say, nine and then go on to Broadcasting House. Be a late night for you. Sure you won’t mind?”
“Not at all. It sounds exciting.”
“Jacob will probably toss an after-broadcast get-together, so don’t expect to get to bed before dawn.”
“That suits me fine. I’ve become an insomniac the past few days.”
“Haven’t we all.” He downed the whisky, wishing instantly that he had not. It was time to leave before he staggered out. He set down the glass and walked toward her, with fierce concentration, and held out his hand. “I’m so glad … that … we’ve met again.”
“So am I.” She took his hand with a smile. “There’s a taxi stand in Mount Street in front of Scott’s.”
“I know,” he said thickly. “I … like Scott’s. Best … oysters in the West End.”
“You’re a wonderful journalist … Thax … but as a crofter I doubt if you’d survive a winter.”
She curled up on the sofa after he’d gone, nursing her tepid gin and holding a book. An hour later Victoria let herself in and flopped beside her, dropping her black beaded handbag on the floor.
“Lord, what an evening! Gerry was utterly boring … more so than usual. We had dinner with Noel and one or two others at Mario’s. Noel talked about his new play and Gerry kept steering the conversation around to centerboards and spinnakers! I could have kicked him. Non sequitur, but why are you wearing my dress?”
“I had someone up for a drink.”
“You did? I don’t believe it. Who?”
“Oh, just a friend of the family.”
“Your usual attire for friends of the family is either skirt and sweater or bathrobe and slippers. What caused you to filch a gown that just cost me a small fortune?”
She gave her a hard, straight look. �
��Because I wanted to look extremely pretty.”
“For whom? Aunt Minerva’s second cousin Bessie or someone like that?”
“Albert Thaxton, if you must know.”
Victoria drew in her breath sharply. “He of the long lashes and bedroom eyes?”
“He’s … very interesting and … extremely intelligent.”
Victoria gave her a pitying look. “Do you really care about his mind? Oh, dear, it’s not fair. He’s going to be totally wasted on you.”
“You have Gerald Smith Blair, Esquire.”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Worse luck. Oh, well, I won’t be greedy. You do look ravishing in the dress. You can keep it if you like. Balmain designed it … just in case anyone should ask.”
“It’s very lovely. Thank you.”
“And you’ll be needing some other frilly things if you’re starting an affair.”
“Vicky! What a ridiculous remark.”
“Sorry. I keep forgetting your vows of chastity.” She yawned and stood up. “Well, I’m for bed. Staying up much longer?”
“Another chapter.”
“I find Proust hard to take … especially when read upside down.” She took the book from her sister’s hands and turned it right way up. Then she bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. “That’s all right, darling. Men. Sitting and thinking about them is half the fun.”
MARTIN HAD BEGUN preparing for the broadcast while still in Munich. His recording engineer had set up a Rilkefunken wire recorder in the lobby of the Regina Palace Hotel and had described the arrival of Neville Chamberlain and his party. Chamberlain himself would not consent to an interview, but one of his aides had answered a few questions before hurrying off. The recording machine had then been taken to the Königsplatz across from the towering Führerbau where the conference with Hitler was to take place. The sounds of the city, the cheering crowds, the military bands, would add color to the broadcast. Martin, script in hand, sat at a table with Jacob, Churchill, Albert, and a Czech diplomat. The red second hand on the clock above the glass control booth flicked toward midnight. An engineer in the booth pointed his finger at Martin as a red light went on.
