cinemas which is really—how can one put this?—not helpful. Goes on about what it calls the German diplomatic triumph and the sufferings in Czechoslovakia rather than um…the peace and security which the agreement has delivered to the whole of Europe. Censorship is out of the question, of course, I fully understand that, but I wondered—particularly with your background in Hollywood—could you have a word with Paramount? With the owners, perhaps? Encourage them to bring a little more balance to their productions?”
“You mean twist a few arms. Break a few legs.”
“I'm sure just a word in the right ear would be sufficient,” Halifax insisted.
“Hey, but half of Hollywood is run by the sons of Israel. Fiddling their own tune. What can you expect…?”
Their discussion was interrupted by a string quartet starting up. Something Middle European. Probably Bach. Coincidence, of course, but to the Queen it seemed like a heavenly fanfare, for at that moment the Prime Minister himself entered the room, dressed for dinner with his wife Anne on his arm.
“Ah, Neville,” the Dowager Queen fluttered, shaken from her sherry, “it's Blessed Neville. At last! Now we can all rest in peace.”
Neville. Blessed Neville. The saintly Neville. Everywhere he goes his name is on their lips and he is acclaimed from all sides. Peace—and praise—in his time. A task completed, a world saved. And a point proved. How ironic it is that of all the generations of mighty Chamberlains, he should be the one to make his mark, and how grotesque that, after what has been said in his praise, he should still feel insecure. But Neville has been raised in the shadows, almost a political afterthought, the son of Joseph and half-brother of Austen, both more obviously eminent than he. And yet neither made it to 10 Downing Street. But he has. He may not have wits as quick or tongue so lyrical, but what he lacks in natural gifts he has made up for with persistence and hard work—some call it blind stubbornness, a determination that has left him gray and close to the edge of utter exhaustion. His body has arrived at the point where cold iron grips him inside at night, and still lingers there in the morning. He has needed every ounce of that stubbornness and self-belief to enable him to carry on, but carry on he must. The peace of Europe depends upon it. So does the good name of his family.
He is still feeling cold to his core as he drives—rather, is being driven—back from Sandringham House. The applause of the guests is ringing in his ears, the warmth of the King's handshake still upon his palm, but by God it's cold at night in these Fens. He wraps himself more tightly in the car blanket and tries to find comfort on the leather seats of the Austin. He wishes he could sleep, like his wife beside him, but sleep has learned to avoid him. It is dark outside, as it was when he flew back from Germany. He had never flown before but three times now he has made the trip, long and uncomfortable, like being thrown around in a tumbrel as it crosses uneven cobbles. But it has been worth the pain. As he flew back that last time along the Thames towards London, he realized he was following the path the bombers might take. And there below him, in allits electric splendor, had sat London and its millions of men, women, and children—his own grandchild included, born just days before he left—waiting. Waiting for him, waiting for Hitler, waiting defenseless for whatever might be thrown against them. But now there isn't going to be a war. And he hopes never to have to go up in an airplane again.
He knows there are those who mock him, but only the types who would have mocked Jesus himself. Behind his back they call him the Undertaker, the Coroner, but not to his face, not any more. Even Hitler had shouted and stormed at him, his spittle landing on Chamberlain's cheek, and Horace Wilson had told him that during one of his private interviews in Berchtesgaden the
“You mean twist a few arms. Break a few legs.”
“I'm sure just a word in the right ear would be sufficient,” Halifax insisted.
“Hey, but half of Hollywood is run by the sons of Israel. Fiddling their own tune. What can you expect…?”
Their discussion was interrupted by a string quartet starting up. Something Middle European. Probably Bach. Coincidence, of course, but to the Queen it seemed like a heavenly fanfare, for at that moment the Prime Minister himself entered the room, dressed for dinner with his wife Anne on his arm.
“Ah, Neville,” the Dowager Queen fluttered, shaken from her sherry, “it's Blessed Neville. At last! Now we can all rest in peace.”
Neville. Blessed Neville. The saintly Neville. Everywhere he goes his name is on their lips and he is acclaimed from all sides. Peace—and praise—in his time. A task completed, a world saved. And a point proved. How ironic it is that of all the generations of mighty Chamberlains, he should be the one to make his mark, and how grotesque that, after what has been said in his praise, he should still feel insecure. But Neville has been raised in the shadows, almost a political afterthought, the son of Joseph and half-brother of Austen, both more obviously eminent than he. And yet neither made it to 10 Downing Street. But he has. He may not have wits as quick or tongue so lyrical, but what he lacks in natural gifts he has made up for with persistence and hard work—some call it blind stubbornness, a determination that has left him gray and close to the edge of utter exhaustion. His body has arrived at the point where cold iron grips him inside at night, and still lingers there in the morning. He has needed every ounce of that stubbornness and self-belief to enable him to carry on, but carry on he must. The peace of Europe depends upon it. So does the good name of his family.
He is still feeling cold to his core as he drives—rather, is being driven—back from Sandringham House. The applause of the guests is ringing in his ears, the warmth of the King's handshake still upon his palm, but by God it's cold at night in these Fens. He wraps himself more tightly in the car blanket and tries to find comfort on the leather seats of the Austin. He wishes he could sleep, like his wife beside him, but sleep has learned to avoid him. It is dark outside, as it was when he flew back from Germany. He had never flown before but three times now he has made the trip, long and uncomfortable, like being thrown around in a tumbrel as it crosses uneven cobbles. But it has been worth the pain. As he flew back that last time along the Thames towards London, he realized he was following the path the bombers might take. And there below him, in allits electric splendor, had sat London and its millions of men, women, and children—his own grandchild included, born just days before he left—waiting. Waiting for him, waiting for Hitler, waiting defenseless for whatever might be thrown against them. But now there isn't going to be a war. And he hopes never to have to go up in an airplane again.
He knows there are those who mock him, but only the types who would have mocked Jesus himself. Behind his back they call him the Undertaker, the Coroner, but not to his face, not any more. Even Hitler had shouted and stormed at him, his spittle landing on Chamberlain's cheek, and Horace Wilson had told him that during one of his private interviews in Berchtesgaden the
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