Munich

3

At 6 p.m. precisely, the tolling of Big Ben carried into Number 10 through the open windows.

As if on cue, Miss Watson stood, collected her hat and coat, wished Legat a crisp ‘Good evening’ and left the office carrying one of the Prime Minister’s red dispatch boxes filled to the brim with her carefully annotated files. The recall of Parliament for an emergency debate on the Czech crisis had put an end to her leisurely summer. Legat knew she would now bicycle, as she always did, down Whitehall to the Palace of Westminster, leave her ancient machine in New Place Yard, and walk up a private staircase to the Prime Minister’s office, which lay across the corridor behind the Speaker’s chair. There she would meet Mr Chamberlain’s Parliamentary Private Secretary, Lord Dunglass, upon whom she had an obvious and unrequited crush, in order to discuss answers for PM’s written questions.

This was Legat’s chance.

He closed the door, sat at his desk, picked up the telephone and called the switchboard. He tried to make his tone casual. ‘Good evening. Legat here. Could you please put me through to this number: Victoria 7472?’

From the instant the meeting with the Chiefs of Staff had ended until that very moment, Legat had been fully occupied. Now at last he laid his notes down on the desk. Trained since childhood for the gladiatorial combat of the examination hall – school, scholarship, Oxford finals, Foreign Office entrance – he had written on one side of the paper only, to avoid smudging the ink. PM expressed concern at adequacy of home air defence … Quickly, he turned the foolscap sheets over, so that the blank side was uppermost. As ordered, he would destroy them. But not quite yet. Something was preventing him. He could not say precisely what – an odd sense of propriety, perhaps. All afternoon, as he had ferried in successive visitors to see the Prime Minister and compiled the documents the PM needed for his speech to Parliament, he had felt himself privy to the real truth. This was the information upon which government policy would be decided: one might almost say nothing else much mattered in comparison. Diplomacy, morality, law, obligation – what did these weigh in the scales against military strength? An RAF squadron, if he remembered correctly, consisted of twenty planes. So at high altitude there were only twenty modern fighters with working guns to defend the entire country.

‘Putting you through now, sir.’

There was a click as the connection was made, followed by the long double-purr of the number ringing. She answered far quicker than he had expected, and brightly: ‘Victoria 7472.’

‘Pamela, it’s me.’

‘Oh, hello, Hugh.’

She sounded surprised, and possibly also disappointed. He said, ‘Listen, I can’t speak for long, so please concentrate on what I’m about to say. I want you to pack a week’s worth of clothes and get the garage to drive you and the children to your parents’ right away.’

‘But it’s six o’clock.’

‘They’ll still be open.’

‘Why do we have to go in such a rush? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing. Nothing yet, anyway. I just want to know you’re somewhere safe.’

‘It sounds rather panicky. I hate people who panic.’

He tightened his grip on the receiver. ‘But I’m afraid people are going to panic, darling.’ He glanced at the door; someone was walking past; their footsteps seemed to stop. He lowered his voice but spoke with greater urgency. ‘By later tonight it may be very hard to get out of London. You need to go now, while the roads are still clear.’ She started to object. ‘Don’t argue with me, Pamela. Will you just, for once, do something I bloody well ask?’

There was a pause. She said quietly, ‘And what about you?’

‘I have to stay here overnight. I’ll try to call you later. I have to go now. You will do this? You promise me?’

‘Yes, all right, if you insist.’ He could hear one of the children in the background. She hushed them: ‘Quiet, I’m talking to your father.’ And then to him: ‘Do you want me to bring you an overnight bag?’

‘No, don’t worry. I’ll try to slip out at some point. You concentrate on getting out of London.’

‘I love you – you do know that?’

‘I know.’

She waited. He knew he ought to say something back but he couldn’t find the words. There was a clatter as she hung up, and then all he could hear was the dialling tone.

Someone knocked on the door.

‘Just a moment.’ He folded his notes from the Chiefs of Staff meeting in half, and then in half again, and slipped them into his inside pocket.

In the corridor was Wren, the messenger. Legat wondered if he had been listening. But all he said was, ‘The BBC have arrived.’

For the first time since the crisis started, there was a large crowd in Downing Street. They had gathered quietly near the photographers on the opposite side of the street to Number 10. What seemed to have attracted their attention most was a large dark-green van with the BBC’s coat of arms and OUTSIDE BROADCAST painted on its sides in gold lettering. It was parked just to the left of the front door. A pair of technicians was feeding cables from the back of the van, across the pavement, and through one of the sash windows.

Legat stood on the doorstep arguing with the young engineer, whose name was Wood. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s just not possible.’

‘Why not?’ Wood wore a V-necked pullover under a brown corduroy suit.

‘Because the Prime Minister will be holding meetings in the Cabinet Room until half-past seven.’

‘Can’t he hold them somewhere else?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘Well, in that case, couldn’t we do the broadcast from a different room?’

‘No, he wishes to address the British people from the heart of government, and that is the Cabinet Room.’

‘Well, look – we’re on the air at eight and it’s gone six now. What if the equipment fails because we haven’t tested it properly?’

‘You’ll have half an hour at the very least, and if I can get you any more time, I shall—’

He broke off. Behind Wood’s shoulder, a black Austin 10 was turning from Whitehall into Downing Street. The driver had switched on the headlamps in the early-evening gloom and was edging forwards slowly to avoid hitting some of the onlookers who had spilled off the pavement into the road. The newsreel cameramen recognised the passenger before Legat did. The brilliance of their arc lights briefly blinded him. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. He muttered, ‘Excuse me,’ to Wood, and stepped down on to the pavement. As the car drew to a halt he opened the rear door.

Hunched down in his seat, Sir Horace Wilson had an umbrella between his knees and a briefcase cradled on his lap. He gave Legat a weak smile and slid out of the car. On the step of Number 10 he turned for an instant, his expression lugubrious and non-committal. The flashbulbs popped. He scuttled inside, like some nocturnal animal allergic to light, ignoring his companion who was emerging from the other side of the car. He advanced towards Legat, hand outstretched. ‘Colonel Mason-MacFarlane. Military attaché, Berlin.’

The policeman saluted.

In the entrance hall, Wilson was already shedding his overcoat and hat. The Prime Minister’s Special Adviser was a slight, almost emaciated figure, with a long nose and pendulous ears. Legat had never found him less than polite, even on occasions slyly charming – the sort of reserved senior colleague he feared might one day unburden himself of confidences one would prefer not to hear. He had made his reputation at the Ministry of Labour dealing with trade union leaders. The thought that he had come straight from delivering an ultimatum to Adolf Hitler was bizarre. Nevertheless, the Prime Minister considered him indispensable. He placed his rolled umbrella carefully into the stand next to his master’s and turned to Legat. ‘Where’s the PM?’

‘He’s in his study, Sir Horace, working on his broadcast for tonight. Everyone else is in the Cabinet Room.’

Wilson set off confidently towards the back of the building. He beckoned to Mason-MacFarlane to follow him. ‘I want you to brief the PM as soon as possible,’ he said, and added over his shoulder to Legat, ‘Would you be kind enough to tell the PM I’m back?’

He threw open the doors to the Cabinet Room and marched in. Legat had a glimpse of dark suits and gold braid, of strained faces and of coiling blue clouds of cigarette smoke suspended in the dusky light, and then the door was closed again.

He walked down the corridor, past Cleverly’s office, and Syers’s, and his own, to the main staircase. He ascended past black-and-white etchings and photographs of every Prime Minister since Walpole. By the time he reached the landing the house had metamorphosed from gentlemen’s club into a grand country mansion, mysteriously deposited in central London, with sofas and oil paintings and high Georgian sash windows. The vista of empty reception rooms was quiet and deserted; beneath the thick carpet the floorboards creaked. He felt like an intruder. He knocked lightly on the door to the Prime Minister’s study. A familiar voice said, ‘Come.’

The room was large and light. The Prime Minister was sitting with his back to the window, bent over his desk, writing with his right hand, a cigar burning in his left. An array of pens and pencils and ink pots stood on a little rack in front of him, alongside a pipe and a tobacco jar; apart from these, and his ashtray and a leather-bound blotter, the big desk was bare. Legat had never seen a man look lonelier.

‘Sir Horace Wilson has returned, Prime Minister. He’s waiting to see you downstairs.’

As usual, Chamberlain did not look up. ‘Thank you. Would you mind holding on for a moment?’ He paused to suck on his cigar and then continued to write. Wreaths of smoke hung around his grey head. Legat stepped over the threshold. In four months he had never had a proper conversation with the Prime Minister. On several occasions, minutes he had submitted overnight had come back the following morning with expressions of gratitude written in the margins in red ink – ‘A first-rate analysis.’ ‘Clearly worked-out and well-expressed, thank you, NC’ – and he had found himself more touched by these schoolmasterly words of praise than by any amount of the usual politician’s bonhomie. But he had never been addressed by name – not even by his surname, as Syers usually was, let alone by his Christian name, which was a distinction reserved for Cleverly alone.

The minutes passed. Surreptitiously Legat took out his watch and checked it. Eventually, the PM finished writing. He replaced his pen in the rack, balanced his cigar on the edge of the ashtray, and gathered together the sheets of paper. He squared them and held them up. ‘Would you be so good as to have these typed?’

‘Of course.’ Legat walked over and took the pages; there were about a dozen.

‘You’re an Oxford man, I suppose?’

‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

‘You have a turn of phrase, I’ve noticed. Perhaps you would read it through? If you find there are passages that need amplifying, feel free to make suggestions. I have so much else on my mind. I worry that somehow it does not flow.’

He pushed back his chair, retrieved his cigar, and stood. The sudden movement seemed to make him dizzy. He placed his hand on the desk to steady himself, then headed for the door.

On the landing, Mrs Chamberlain was waiting. She looked as if she had already dressed for dinner in some sort of velvety gown. She was a decade younger than the Prime Minister: kind, vague, bosomy, softly stout, she reminded Legat of his mother-in-law, another Anglo-Irish county girl said to have been a beauty in her youth. Legat hung back. She said something quietly to her husband and to his amazement he saw the Prime Minister briefly take her hand and kiss her on the lips. ‘I can’t stop now, Annie. We’ll talk later.’ As Legat passed her it looked to him as if she had been crying.

He followed Chamberlain down the stairs, noticing the narrow sloping shoulders, the silvery hair curling slightly where it was cut short at the back, the surprisingly powerful hand brushing lightly along the banister rail with the half-smoked cigar still wedged between the second and third fingers. He was a Victorian figure. His portrait on the staircase ought to be halfway up rather than at the top. When they reached the Private Office corridor, the Prime Minister said, ‘Please bring me the speech as soon as you can.’ He walked on past Legat’s office, patting his pockets until he found his box of matches. At the entrance to the Cabinet Room he stopped and re-lit his cigar, then opened the doors and disappeared inside.

Legat sat at his desk. The Prime Minister’s handwriting was unexpectedly flowery, theatrical even. It hinted at a more passionate persona beneath the carapace of rectitude. As for the speech itself, he did not care for it. There was too much of the first person singular for his taste: I was flying backwards and forwards across Europe … I have done all that one man can do … I shall not give up the hope of a peaceful solution … I am a man of peace to the depths of my soul … In his ostentatiously modest way, he thought, Chamberlain was as egocentric as Hitler: he always conflated the national interest with himself.

He made a few changes here and there, corrected some of the grammar, added a line announcing the mobilisation of the Navy which the PM seemed to have forgotten, and took the text downstairs.

As he descended to the Garden Room the atmosphere of the house changed again. Now it was like going below decks on a luxury liner. Oil paintings and bookcases and calm gave way to low ceilings, bare walls, stale air, heat and the incessant racket of more than a dozen Imperial typewriters clattering away at a rate of eighty words per minute. Even with the doors open to the garden it felt oppressive. Thousands of letters a day had been pouring into Number 10 from members of the public ever since the crisis began. Sacks of unopened mail were piled in the narrow passage. It was getting close to seven o’clock. Legat explained to the supervisor the urgency of his mission and was led over to a young woman seated at a desk in the corner.

‘Joan here is our fastest. Joan, dear, you’ll have to stop whatever it is you’re doing, and type up the Prime Minister’s broadcast for Mr Legat.’

Joan pressed a lever on the end of her typewriter carriage and pulled out the half-finished document. ‘How many copies?’ Her voice was ‘smart’, cut-glass. She might have been a friend of Pamela’s.

He perched on the edge of her desk. ‘Three. Can you decipher his writing?’

‘Yes, but it’ll be quicker if you dictate it.’ She wound the paper and carbons into place and waited for him to start.

‘“Tomorrow, Parliament is going to meet and I shall be making a full statement of the events that have led up to the present anxious and critical situation …”’

He took out his fountain pen. ‘Sorry: it ought to be “the events which have led …”’ He marked the change on the original and carried on. ‘“How horrible, fantastic, incredible it is that we should be digging trenches and trying on gas masks here because of a quarrel in a faraway country between people of whom we know nothing …”’

He frowned. She stopped typing and looked up at him. She was sweating slightly beneath her make-up. There was a tiny line of moisture above her upper lip, and a patch of dampness on the back of her blouse. He noticed for the first time that she was pretty.

She said irritably, ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘Only that phrase – I’m not sure about it.’

‘Why?’

‘It sounds perhaps rather dismissive.’

‘He’s right though, isn’t he? That’s what most people think. What’s it got to do with us if one lot of Germans wants to join another lot of Germans?’ She rattled her fingers impatiently on the keys. ‘Come on, Mr Legat – you’re not the Prime Minister, you know.’

He laughed, despite himself. ‘That’s true – thank God! All right, let’s carry on.’

It took her about fifteen minutes. When they reached the end she unwound the final page, arranged the three copies in order and fixed them together with paperclips. He inspected the top copy. It was flawless. ‘How many words is that, would you say?’

‘About a thousand.’

‘So it should take him about eight minutes to deliver.’ He stood. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ As he moved away she called after him, ‘I’ll be listening.’

By the time he reached the door she was already typing something else.

Legat hurried back upstairs and along the Private Office corridor. As he approached the Cabinet Room, Cleverly appeared. He seemed to have been lurking outside the nearby lavatory. ‘What happened to your minute of the PM’s meeting with the Chiefs of Staff?’

Legat felt his face colour slightly. ‘The PM decided he didn’t want the meeting recorded.’

‘Then what are you carrying there?’

‘The speech for his broadcast tonight. He asked me to bring it to him as soon as it was typed.’

‘All right. Good.’ Cleverly held out his hand. ‘I’ll take it from here.’ Reluctantly Legat handed over the pages. ‘Why don’t you go and see what the BBC are up to?’

Cleverly let himself into the Cabinet Room. The door closed. Legat stared at the painted white panels. Power depended on being in the room when the decisions were taken. Few understood that rule better than the Principal Private Secretary. Legat felt obscurely humiliated.

Suddenly the door reopened. The bottom part of Cleverly’s face was twisted into a ghastly rictus-smile. ‘Apparently he wants you.’

A dozen men, including the Prime Minister, were seated around the table. Legat took them in at a glance: the service chiefs, the Big Three, the Dominions Secretary and the Minister for Defence Co-ordination, plus Horace Wilson and the Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office, Sir Alexander Cadogan. They were listening to the military attaché, Colonel Mason-MacFarlane.

‘So the very strong impression I received from my visit to Prague yesterday is that Czech military morale is poor …’ His delivery was clipped but fluent. He seemed to be enjoying his moment on stage.

The Prime Minister noticed Legat standing in the doorway and gestured with a nod of his head that he should come and sit next to him, in the seat to his right usually reserved for the Cabinet Secretary. He was already reading through the speech, running his pen down the page, occasionally underlining a word. He gave the impression that he was only half-listening to the colonel.

‘… Until last year, the Czech General Staff had planned on countering a German attack from two directions – from the north via Silesia, and from the west via Bavaria. But the incorporation of Austria into the Reich has extended their border with Germany to the south by almost two hundred miles, and that threatens to turn their defences. The Czechs may fight, but will the Slovaks? Also, Prague itself is hopelessly under-defended against bombing by the Luftwaffe.’

Wilson, who was sitting on the other side of the Prime Minister, cut in. ‘I saw General Göring last night and he was confident the German Army would overrun the Czechs not in weeks but in days. “And Prague will be bombed to rubble” – those were his very words.’

There was a snort from Cadogan on the opposite side of the table. ‘It’s obviously in Göring’s interests to present the Czechs as a pushover. The fact remains the Czechs have a large army and strong defensive fortifications. They might well hold out for months.’

‘Except, as you’ve just heard, that’s not Colonel Mason-MacFarlane’s view.’

‘With respect, Horace, what does he know about it?’ Cadogan was a small, usually taciturn man. But Legat could see he was defending the prerogatives of the Foreign Office like a bantam cock.

‘With equal respect, Alec, he has actually been there, unlike the rest of us.’

The Prime Minister put down his pen. ‘Thank you very much for coming all the way from Berlin to see us, Colonel. It has been most useful. I know we all wish you a safe trip back to Germany.’

‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

When the door had closed, Chamberlain said, ‘I asked Sir Horace to bring the colonel back to London with him and report to us directly because this seems to me a crucial point.’ He looked around the table. ‘Suppose the Czechs were to collapse before the end of October: how would we convince the British public the war was worth continuing through the winter? We would be asking them to make the most tremendous sacrifices – and to achieve what, precisely? We have already conceded that the Sudeten Germans should never have been transferred to a Czech-dominated state in the first place.’

Halifax said, ‘That is certainly the position of the Dominions. They have made it absolutely clear to us today that their people won’t stand for a war on such a narrow issue. America won’t come in. The Irish will be neutral. One does begin to wonder where we shall find any allies.’

Cadogan said, ‘There are always the Russians, of course. We keep forgetting they also have a treaty with the Czechs.’

A murmur of unease went round the table. The Prime Minister said, ‘The last time I looked at the map, Alec, there wasn’t a common border between the Soviet Union and Czechoslovakia. The only way they could intervene would be by invading either Poland or Romania. In that event they would both enter the war on the side of Germany. And really, even putting aside the facts of geography – to have Stalin, of all people, as our ally in a crusade to uphold international law! The notion is grotesque.’

Gort said, ‘The strategic nightmare is that this becomes a world war, and we end up having to fight Germany in Europe, Italy in the Mediterranean and Japan in the Far East. In that event, I have to say, in my view, the very existence of the Empire will be in grave jeopardy.’

Wilson said, ‘We are drifting into the most appalling mess, and it seems to me there is only one way out. I have drafted a telegram telling the Czechs that in our opinion they should accept Herr Hitler’s terms before his deadline of two o’clock tomorrow – withdraw from the Sudetenland and let him occupy the territory. It’s the only sure way for us to avoid being entangled in a war that could quickly grow to enormous proportions.’

Halifax said, ‘But what if they refuse?’

‘They won’t, in my judgement. And if they do, then at least the United Kingdom would no longer be under any moral obligation to get involved. We would have done our best.’

There was a silence.

The Prime Minister said, ‘It does at least have the merit of simplicity.’

Halifax and Cadogan exchanged glances. Both began to shake their heads – Halifax slowly, Cadogan with some vigour. ‘No, Prime Minister, that would make us effectively the Germans’ accomplices. Our standing in the world would collapse, and the Empire with it.’

‘And what about France?’ added Halifax. ‘We would put them in an intolerable position.’

Wilson said, ‘They should have thought about that before they gave a guarantee to Czechoslovakia without consulting us.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Cadogan raised his voice. ‘This isn’t an industrial dispute, Horace. We can’t allow France to fight Germany alone.’

Wilson was unfazed. ‘But surely Lord Gort has just told us France has no intention of fighting? Apart from the odd raid, they will stay behind the Maginot Line until the summer.’

The service chiefs started talking all at once. Legat saw the Prime Minister glance over at the clock above the mantelpiece, then return his attention to his speech. Without his controlling authority, the meeting quickly disintegrated into a hubbub of separate conversations. One had to admire his powers of concentration. He was in his seventieth year, yet he kept on going, like the grandfather clock in the hall – tick, tick, tick …

Through the high windows the light had begun to fade. The time reached seven-thirty. Legat decided he ought to say something. ‘Prime Minister,’ he whispered, ‘I’m afraid the BBC will need to come in now to set up their equipment.’

Chamberlain nodded. He glanced around the table and said quietly, ‘Gentlemen?’ Immediately the voices fell silent. ‘I am afraid we shall have to leave matters there for now. The situation is obviously as grave as it could be. We now have less than twenty hours before the Germans’ ultimatum expires. Foreign Secretary, perhaps you and I could talk a little more about this question of a telegram to the Czech Government? Horace, we’ll go into your office. Alec, you’d better come too. Thank you all.’

Wilson’s office adjoined the Cabinet Room and was linked to it directly by its own door. Often, when the Prime Minister was working alone at the long coffin-shaped table, the door was left open so that Wilson could wander in and out at will. In the press, he was written up as Chamberlain’s Svengali but in Legat’s observation that was to underrate the PM’s dominance: Wilson was more like a supremely useful servant. He glided silently around Downing Street keeping an eye on the machinery of government in the manner of a store detective. Several times when he had been working at his own desk he had felt a presence and had turned to find Wilson quietly observing him from the doorway. His face would be expressionless at first; then would come that sly unnerving smile.

The BBC engineers unspooled cables across the carpet and set up the microphone at the far end of the Cabinet table close to the pillars. It was suspended from a metal stand: an object large and cylindrical, tapering to a point at the back, like the sawn-off end of an artillery shell. Beside it was a loudspeaker and various other mysterious pieces of equipment. Syers and Cleverly came in to watch. Syers said, ‘The BBC have asked if they can also make a live broadcast of the PM’s statement to Parliament tomorrow.’

Cleverly said, ‘That’s not a matter for us.’

‘I know. It would obviously set a precedent. I’ve referred them to the Chief Whip.’

At five minutes to eight, the Prime Minister emerged from Wilson’s office, followed by Halifax and Cadogan. Wilson was the last to appear. He looked irritated. Legat guessed he must have had a further argument with Cadogan. That was Wilson’s other great usefulness – to act as a surrogate for his chief. The Prime Minister could use him to test out ideas, and then could sit back and observe what happened without having to expose his own views and risk his authority.

Chamberlain took his seat behind the microphone and spread out his speech. His hands were shaking. One of the pages fell to the floor and he had to bend stiffly to retrieve it. He muttered, ‘I’m wobbling about all over the place.’ He asked for a glass of water. Legat poured one from the jug in the centre of the table. In his anxiety he over-filled it. Beads of water stood out on the polished surface.

The BBC engineer asked them all to sit at the other end of the room. Outside over the garden and Horse Guards Parade darkness had fallen.

Big Ben chimed eight o’clock.

The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker. ‘This is London. In a moment, you will hear the Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Neville Chamberlain, speaking from Number Ten Downing Street. His speech will be heard all over the Empire, throughout the continent of America, and in a large number of foreign countries. Mr Chamberlain.’

Beside the microphone, a green light glowed. The Prime Minister adjusted his cuffs and picked up his speech.

‘I want to say a few words to you, men and women of Britain and the Empire, and perhaps to others as well …’

He enunciated each syllable carefully. His tone was euphonious, melancholy; as inspiring as a dirge.

‘How horrible, fantastic, incredible it is that we should be digging trenches and trying on gas masks here because of a quarrel in a faraway country between people of whom we know nothing. It seems still more impossible that a quarrel which has already been settled in principle should be the subject of war. I can well understand the reasons why the Czech Government have felt unable to accept the terms which have been put before them in the German memorandum …’

Legat glanced across the table at Cadogan. He was nodding in agreement.

‘Yet I believe after my talks with Herr Hitler that, if only time were allowed, it ought to be possible for the arrangements for transferring the territory that the Czech Government has agreed to give to Germany to be settled by agreement under conditions which would assure fair treatment to the population concerned. After my visits to Germany I have realised vividly how Herr Hitler feels that he must champion other Germans. He told me privately, and last night he repeated publicly, that after this Sudeten German question is settled, that is the end of Germany’s territorial claims in Europe …’

Cadogan winced at Halifax but the Foreign Secretary stared ahead. His long, pale, pious, crafty face was motionless. In the Foreign Office they called him ‘the Holy Fox’.

‘I shall not give up the hope of a peaceful solution, or abandon my efforts for peace, as long as any chance for peace remains. I would not hesitate to pay even a third visit to Germany if I thought it would do any good …’

Now it was Wilson who was nodding.

‘Meanwhile there are certain things we can and shall do at home. Volunteers are still wanted for air-raid precautions, for fire brigade and police services, and for the Territorial units. Do not be alarmed if you hear of men being called up to man the anti-aircraft defences or ships. These are only precautionary measures such as a government must take in times like this …’

Legat waited for the line announcing the mobilisation of the Navy. It did not come. The Prime Minister had cut it. Instead he had inserted a new paragraph.

‘However much we may sympathise with a small nation confronted by a big and powerful neighbour, we cannot in all circumstances undertake to involve the whole British Empire in war simply on her account. If we have to fight it must be on larger issues than that …

‘If I were convinced that any nation had made up its mind to dominate the world by fear of its force, I should feel that it must be resisted. Under such a domination, life for people who believe in liberty would not be worth living. But war is a fearful thing, and we must be very clear, before we embark on it, that it is really the great issues that are at stake, and that the call to risk everything in their defence, when all the consequences are weighed, is irresistible.

‘For the present I ask you to await as calmly as you can the events of the next few days. As long as war has not begun, there is always hope that it may be prevented, and you know that I am going to work for peace to the last moment. Goodnight.’

The green light went out.

Chamberlain exhaled a long breath and slumped back in his chair.

Wilson was the first on his feet. He walked towards the Prime Minister, softly applauding. ‘That really was superb, if I may say so. Not one stumble or hesitation.’

Legat had never seen the Prime Minister’s grin before. It bared a neat row of yellowish-grey teeth. He looked almost boyish in his pleasure at being praised. ‘Was it really all right?’

Halifax said, ‘The tone was perfect, Prime Minister.’

‘Thank you, Edward. Thank you, everyone.’ He included Legat along with the BBC engineers in this general benediction. ‘I always find the trick, when I’m speaking on the wireless, is to try to imagine I’m talking just to one person, sitting in their armchair – intimately, as a friend. That was harder to do tonight, of course, knowing I was also having to talk to a second person, sitting in the shadows of the room.’ He took a sip of water. ‘Herr Hitler.’