the corridors, to the car waiting outside. The cigar was fired up again in the backseat, the carriage filling with pale, curling waves. Churchill stared solemnly through the window as the driver pulled away from the kerb. “K.B.O., K.B.O.,” he said to no one.
“Sorry, what was that, sir?” asked the driver.
Churchill smiled. “Nothing, old chap, nothing. Just a phrase I use as sustenance in problematical times.”
“K.B.O.?” The driver cast a look at him in the rearview mirror. “Is that a political acronym?”
“Ha, no. Nothing like that. It stands for
keep buggering on.
”
The driver’s eyes returned to the road as they swept round a corner. “Seems like very sound advice to me, sir.”
Churchill said, “It’s certainly a doctrine I subscribe to, my man. Yes, keep buggering on.”
CHAPTER 7
6.00 p.m
.
T he pavements and buildings of Westminster radiated heat, throwing out the sun absorbed over hours of intensive baking. The grass, dried to its yellow roots, crunched underfoot. A sandstone path took Esther to the iron gate of Black Rod’s entrance. It clanged back on its hinges. Walking from the cool of the library on to the streets made the eyes spark with dots. Esther took it slowly as she went to her car. She drank from a glass bottle of hot Fanta and was sickened by it.
Mr. Chartwell’s imminent appointment loomed like the promise of an accident and was terrible. But extraordinarily, the idea that he wouldn’t come, disappearing forever, was also terrible. These two terrors battled for supremacy. Then, thrashed into submission, one fell beneath the other. Starting the car ignition,Esther was fascinated to discover she secretly wanted Mr. Chartwell to come to the house. It made her turn off the engine, needing to sit for a minute and check the facts.
For a long time the weeks of her life had drifted past as ghosts. There was the rare bump of pleasure, perhaps from a meal out or a visit to the cinema, but it was brittle and shattered under the lonely monotony of the ghost days. But now the singular Mr. Chartwell was here, ransacking her forlorn routine. It was a tonic of acid vibrancy and nerves.
At home she moved about like an animal running around the walls of its compound, useless with anxiety. It was a relief when there was a knock at the front door which told her the familiar mattress shape would be blocking the light in her hallway.
“Hello, Mrs. Hammerhans,” said Mr. Chartwell. He was holding a bunch of exhausted carnations, which he handed to her, then stood panting loudly. When Esther offered him a glass of water he reached behind a hind leg, producing a bottle of Mateus Rosé hidden on the doorstep. “I thought you might like some wine.”
“Oh,” Esther said in surprise, wondering where he’d bought it, “that sounds nice.” She added as an afterthought, “Call me Esther. You don’t need to call me Mrs. Hammerhans.”
In the kitchen he stood clumsy and self-conscious, leaning a paw on the orange tiles over the counter as Esther fetched the glasses. She said, “What do you think about having a drink in the garden? It’s a lovely evening.”
Mr. Chartwell murmured his consent and padded tamely behind her, Esther fighting the impulse to squirm off on the legs of an octopus at his closeness.
The garden, a modest strip of land preserved as Michael hadleft it, had been lovingly bullied into opulence. Swollen in the summer sun and bulging with flowers, it looked like a burst suitcase. Birch trees grew near a pond, big red goldfish breaking the water as they lipped the surface for insects. Mr. Chartwell watched them avidly, ears tuned to their activities.
Esther sat down on the bench. She leant back, dust from the kitchen windowsill coating her hair, and drank some wine. It was warm and offensively sweet, a foul syrup, but Esther welcomed it. She topped up her glass.
Mr. Chartwell was finished with the fish and went to look at the greenhouse. Hidden in a passageway along
“Sorry, what was that, sir?” asked the driver.
Churchill smiled. “Nothing, old chap, nothing. Just a phrase I use as sustenance in problematical times.”
“K.B.O.?” The driver cast a look at him in the rearview mirror. “Is that a political acronym?”
“Ha, no. Nothing like that. It stands for
keep buggering on.
”
The driver’s eyes returned to the road as they swept round a corner. “Seems like very sound advice to me, sir.”
Churchill said, “It’s certainly a doctrine I subscribe to, my man. Yes, keep buggering on.”
CHAPTER 7
6.00 p.m
.
T he pavements and buildings of Westminster radiated heat, throwing out the sun absorbed over hours of intensive baking. The grass, dried to its yellow roots, crunched underfoot. A sandstone path took Esther to the iron gate of Black Rod’s entrance. It clanged back on its hinges. Walking from the cool of the library on to the streets made the eyes spark with dots. Esther took it slowly as she went to her car. She drank from a glass bottle of hot Fanta and was sickened by it.
Mr. Chartwell’s imminent appointment loomed like the promise of an accident and was terrible. But extraordinarily, the idea that he wouldn’t come, disappearing forever, was also terrible. These two terrors battled for supremacy. Then, thrashed into submission, one fell beneath the other. Starting the car ignition,Esther was fascinated to discover she secretly wanted Mr. Chartwell to come to the house. It made her turn off the engine, needing to sit for a minute and check the facts.
For a long time the weeks of her life had drifted past as ghosts. There was the rare bump of pleasure, perhaps from a meal out or a visit to the cinema, but it was brittle and shattered under the lonely monotony of the ghost days. But now the singular Mr. Chartwell was here, ransacking her forlorn routine. It was a tonic of acid vibrancy and nerves.
At home she moved about like an animal running around the walls of its compound, useless with anxiety. It was a relief when there was a knock at the front door which told her the familiar mattress shape would be blocking the light in her hallway.
“Hello, Mrs. Hammerhans,” said Mr. Chartwell. He was holding a bunch of exhausted carnations, which he handed to her, then stood panting loudly. When Esther offered him a glass of water he reached behind a hind leg, producing a bottle of Mateus Rosé hidden on the doorstep. “I thought you might like some wine.”
“Oh,” Esther said in surprise, wondering where he’d bought it, “that sounds nice.” She added as an afterthought, “Call me Esther. You don’t need to call me Mrs. Hammerhans.”
In the kitchen he stood clumsy and self-conscious, leaning a paw on the orange tiles over the counter as Esther fetched the glasses. She said, “What do you think about having a drink in the garden? It’s a lovely evening.”
Mr. Chartwell murmured his consent and padded tamely behind her, Esther fighting the impulse to squirm off on the legs of an octopus at his closeness.
The garden, a modest strip of land preserved as Michael hadleft it, had been lovingly bullied into opulence. Swollen in the summer sun and bulging with flowers, it looked like a burst suitcase. Birch trees grew near a pond, big red goldfish breaking the water as they lipped the surface for insects. Mr. Chartwell watched them avidly, ears tuned to their activities.
Esther sat down on the bench. She leant back, dust from the kitchen windowsill coating her hair, and drank some wine. It was warm and offensively sweet, a foul syrup, but Esther welcomed it. She topped up her glass.
Mr. Chartwell was finished with the fish and went to look at the greenhouse. Hidden in a passageway along
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