Free Churchill's Hour by Michael Dobbs Page B

‘Do what only you can do, Pamela. Give me grandchildren. Give our family and our world a future. Make this all worthwhile.’ He kissed her hand. ‘What more can an old man ask?’
    She had been right. This was not the time. She screamed, but only inside. He couldn’t know, didn’t deserve to be showered in the wretchedness that was welling up inside her. That would come later, when she was in bed, alone. He had so many other lives to care for; she would have to look after her own.
    She left him staring into the embers of the dying fire.

FOUR
    Spring. New life. Daffodils. Crocus. Blossom. Warmer days. Death.
    The bombers were back. The intermittent raids of winter had given way to a renewed onslaught that pounded London night after night.
    Queues. Britain’s way to win the war. Line after line of women waiting patiently for whatever was left. Hour after hour, without knowing what might be there when at last they came to the head of the queue, ration book in hand, coins in purse or pocket. The Ministry of Food had just announced five exhilarating new ways of serving potato—wartime ‘champ’, hot potato salad, potato pastry, potato suet crust. ‘And save those orange rinds,’ the official advertisement insisted. ‘Grate your orange peel and mix a little with mashed potatoes. The potatoes will turn an exciting pink colour!’
    But would still be mashed potatoes.
    Yet not everyone dined on pink mash. It was a foodstuff entirely unknown to Lady Emerald StJohn. In truth, her name was not Emerald—she had been born a Maud, but she thought it common. She was not a ‘proper’ lady, inasmuch as she was American and had married into the title, although she had parted from her husband many years previously, relieving him of not only his marital obligations but also a substantial chunk of his fortune. And, above all, Emerald was no saint. It was why people flocked to her dinner parties, always assured of entertainment, excitement, intrigue—and a little wickedness. Not sexual wickedness, Emerald had worn herself out on three husbands and was past most of that, but as the folds about her face had fallen to wrinkles, she compensated with a tongue that had developed the snagging capacity of a billhook. Sitting at one of her tables was like playing roulette with one’s reputation. Someone would always walk away a little poorer.
    Pamela arrived late, just as the others were preparing to sit down. The introductions were hurried and she wasn’t concentrating; she’d squeezed in a couple of drinks on the way. But there was a Japanese gentleman, whom people addressed as ‘Your Excellency’, identifying him as the ambassador, Mamoru Shigemitsu. He seemed lost in conversation with his American counterpart, Winant, whom she recognized, and another man whom she did not, American by the cut of his clothes, tall, middle-aged, yet still athletic in build.The party was completed by two parliamentarians and their wives, a Free French naval officer and two young French women, but all eyes seemed to be on Shigemitsu.
    The Japanese was small in physique and most earnest in his expression, polite, but persistent, and very defensive. That was no surprise. He had arrived at the Court of St James’s three years earlier, and with every passing season his task had grown more difficult. Japan was at war with China. It was not a popular war. The newspapers were filled with countless headlines about Japanese brutality, accompanied by disgracefully provocative photographs. Not that the British could tell the difference between a Chinese or Japanese, of course. They even delighted in their ignorance. As much as Shigemitsu tried to reassure his audiences that Japan had no intention of attacking British possessions, not a soul believed him. Yet still he did his best.
    â€˜Japanese believe in Hakko-Ichiu,’ he said.
    â€˜How fascinating, Your Excellency,’ the