Read Online WC02 - Never Surrender by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Dobbs
Ads: Link
taxi driver yelled through his window.
"Ah, the people, the people," he muttered mournfully to Bracken.
The traffic thinned and they set off toward the Parliament building until, in the middle of the road, Churchill came to an abrupt halt, smacking the silver top of his cane into the palm of his hand.
"But perhaps that is it, Brendan. The people. The marketplace. And ghosts .. ."
It meant nothing to Bracken who, mystified, shuffled his companion beyond the reach of the advancing traffic.
"They are the answer, Brendan, the people." The cane smacked down once more. "Forget Brutus, think of Mark Antony. An appeal over the heads of the conspirators. Trust the people. Just as my father always insisted. That was the rock on which stood his entire career."
Bracken knew this was balderdash. For all the father's wild protestations about democracy, at the first opportunity Lord Randolph had cast aside his radical ideas and grabbed hungrily at Ministerial office. It was another of Winston's romantic myths and Bracken considered telling him so, but thought better of it. The old man had been in such a fragile mood.
"But .. ." Churchill seemed somehow to deflate. "How can I expect their loyalty when I have nothing to offer them but calamity?"
"Why not surprise them? Tell them the truth."
"The truth is too painful."
"Not half as painful as all the lies they've been fed and all the easy victories they've been promised."
"I'm not sure I can offer them victory of any kind."
"You must. Otherwise they won't follow and they won't fight. But offer them the scent of hope and they will give you everything."
They were at the gateway to the Palace of Westminster; a duty policeman saluted. Bracken's mind raced. He was no intellectual but he had an unfailing capacity for borrowing arguments and detecting what others and particularly Winston Churchill needed to hear. Frequently the old man wanted to argue, to engage in a shouting match that would see them through dinner and well into a bottle of brandy. But this was a different Churchill, a hurt, mistrustful Churchill, a man who needed bolstering, not beating.
"Winston, I've never fought in a war, while you've fought in several. Always thought you were a mad bugger, to be honest, risking your neck like that. But this I do know. War has changed. It's no longer a matter of a few officers and a handful of men charging thousands of fuzzy-wuzzies. It involves every man in the country, women and children, too. Modern war is people's war, and the people are as likely to die in their own homes as they are on the front line. They have a right to be told the truth. You've got to trust them."
They had reached the threshold of the Parliament building.
"Anyway," Bracken added, 'you've got no other bloody choice but to trust the people. Nobody else trusts you."
Churchill forged ahead once more, the cane beating time, his eyes fixed upon an idea that was beginning to rotate in his mind and spin aside so many of the doubts that had been plaguing him. His concentration was total and he offered his friend no word of thanks or farewell. His colleague was left staring at his disappearing back.
"Remember like Mark Antony," Bracken called after him.
"Like my father," he thought he heard the old man reply.
When, later that day, Churchill entered the Chamber of the House of Commons from behind the Speaker's Chair, it was packed. For two days and nights of the previous week this same place had heard protestations and denunciations of Neville Chamberlain so terrible it had caused his Government to fall. Now, like a wicked child caught in the act, it protested its innocence.
As they spotted Churchill making his way towards his place, there were those on the opposite side of the House who cheered and waved their papers in the traditional form of greeting. It scratched at their socialist hearts to show goodwill towards a man such as this, but there were the common courtesies to be observed. Yet from his own
"Ah, the people, the people," he muttered mournfully to Bracken.
The traffic thinned and they set off toward the Parliament building until, in the middle of the road, Churchill came to an abrupt halt, smacking the silver top of his cane into the palm of his hand.
"But perhaps that is it, Brendan. The people. The marketplace. And ghosts .. ."
It meant nothing to Bracken who, mystified, shuffled his companion beyond the reach of the advancing traffic.
"They are the answer, Brendan, the people." The cane smacked down once more. "Forget Brutus, think of Mark Antony. An appeal over the heads of the conspirators. Trust the people. Just as my father always insisted. That was the rock on which stood his entire career."
Bracken knew this was balderdash. For all the father's wild protestations about democracy, at the first opportunity Lord Randolph had cast aside his radical ideas and grabbed hungrily at Ministerial office. It was another of Winston's romantic myths and Bracken considered telling him so, but thought better of it. The old man had been in such a fragile mood.
"But .. ." Churchill seemed somehow to deflate. "How can I expect their loyalty when I have nothing to offer them but calamity?"
"Why not surprise them? Tell them the truth."
"The truth is too painful."
"Not half as painful as all the lies they've been fed and all the easy victories they've been promised."
"I'm not sure I can offer them victory of any kind."
"You must. Otherwise they won't follow and they won't fight. But offer them the scent of hope and they will give you everything."
They were at the gateway to the Palace of Westminster; a duty policeman saluted. Bracken's mind raced. He was no intellectual but he had an unfailing capacity for borrowing arguments and detecting what others and particularly Winston Churchill needed to hear. Frequently the old man wanted to argue, to engage in a shouting match that would see them through dinner and well into a bottle of brandy. But this was a different Churchill, a hurt, mistrustful Churchill, a man who needed bolstering, not beating.
"Winston, I've never fought in a war, while you've fought in several. Always thought you were a mad bugger, to be honest, risking your neck like that. But this I do know. War has changed. It's no longer a matter of a few officers and a handful of men charging thousands of fuzzy-wuzzies. It involves every man in the country, women and children, too. Modern war is people's war, and the people are as likely to die in their own homes as they are on the front line. They have a right to be told the truth. You've got to trust them."
They had reached the threshold of the Parliament building.
"Anyway," Bracken added, 'you've got no other bloody choice but to trust the people. Nobody else trusts you."
Churchill forged ahead once more, the cane beating time, his eyes fixed upon an idea that was beginning to rotate in his mind and spin aside so many of the doubts that had been plaguing him. His concentration was total and he offered his friend no word of thanks or farewell. His colleague was left staring at his disappearing back.
"Remember like Mark Antony," Bracken called after him.
"Like my father," he thought he heard the old man reply.
When, later that day, Churchill entered the Chamber of the House of Commons from behind the Speaker's Chair, it was packed. For two days and nights of the previous week this same place had heard protestations and denunciations of Neville Chamberlain so terrible it had caused his Government to fall. Now, like a wicked child caught in the act, it protested its innocence.
As they spotted Churchill making his way towards his place, there were those on the opposite side of the House who cheered and waved their papers in the traditional form of greeting. It scratched at their socialist hearts to show goodwill towards a man such as this, but there were the common courtesies to be observed. Yet from his own
Similar Books
