Winston’s War Read Online Free PDF Page A

replacing the unused portion in its packet.
    The exchange room where she worked was gloomy, the overhead lighting meager and inadequate for its task. She settled onto her high-backed stool and confronted the array of switches that were set out with military precision on the board in front of her. At chin-level were posted the Instructions of the Day, printed on a small card. From all sides came the quiet female chatter of operators handling inquiries and connecting calls. It proved to be a busy night at the exchange with much of the country intent on sharing the hard-won pleasures of peace.
    She listened in on many of the trunk calls in order to ensure that the connection remained clear, at times feeling tempted to join in, to celebrate with them, even to tell them about her Norman. Thoughts of Norman made the night drag. His hands were elegant and remarkably soft, just like a glove salesman's should be, and she wanted it to be tomorrow already.
    When the call came up on her board, she knew precisely what to do. The Instructions about this number, Westerham 4433, were clear. She turned to attract the attention of her supervisor, who was sitting at her cubicle in the middle of the exchange floor and who responded with a nod. The supervisor, several years older than any other of the girls on the floor, inserted a plug in her own board and re-routed the call through the Observation Room.
    The Observation Room was small, almost sepulchral, without the background chatter of the main exchange. In it sat another young female operator with headphones on, recording tape machine at the ready, and pencil in hand. As the call was connected she noted both the time and the number on her Observation Sheet, and as the voices poured out she began her task of taking down in shorthand every word of the conversation.
    It wasn't difficult to tell the difference between the two men's voices. One was ordinary, just a voice in the babble.
    The other was quite unmistakable. Sonorous. Distinctively sibilant.
    She began scribbling till her fingers ached.

 
     
     
     
     
     

     
     
     
     
    A lfred Duff Cooper, PC, DSO, MP, and many other bits and bobs, was a man of prodigious appetites. He couldn't spend a week without women—many of them—including his beautiful and sophisticated wife, Diana. As a species he found them irritating, yet individually they were irresistible. Neither did he seem able to live without the encouragement of alcohol, although in this he was far from unique within the clubs and corridors of the powerful. He was also a man of considerable intellectual capacity, having written an acclaimed biography of Talleyrand and another of Field Marshal Haig even while he was undertaking his duties as a senior member of the Cabinet. But above all else his appetite was for politics, a game that had brought fame, high office, and many beautiful women to his doorstep. Yet, for “Duffie,” politics were to prove the most faithless mistress of them all.
    “A trim and a shave, if you will, McFadden. And take your time. I have to look my best.”
    “An important engagement, sir?”
    “With the executioner's axe.”
    “Certainly, sir,” Mac replied, displaying as much emotion as if he had been asked to put out the empty milk bottles.
    The politician had walked the fifteen minutes from his office in the Admiralty to Trumper's, the finest gentlemen's barbers in the country, which stood on Mayfair's Curzon Street. It was a walk made by an extraordinarily large number of the grandest men in the land (although in the case of the Palace and Downing Street it was more usual for the barber to pack his small case of necessities and make a house call). McFadden was one of that handful of select barbers who served them. He had joined the firm years before through a combination of good fortune and his considerable ability. Everyone liked Mac because he was totally undemanding. Nobody needed to bother getting to know him. He arrived, he worked, he