Munich

2

Legat had spent the night at his club.

He had arrived to discover a backgammon evening in progress. Much strong drink had been taken. Until long after midnight the muffled noises of heavy male conversation and stupid laughter permeated the floorboards of his room. Even so, he preferred it to the silence of North Street where he would only have lain awake listening for the sound of Pamela’s key in the latch – assuming, that is, she bothered to come home at all. On previous form it was just as likely she would slink back a day or two later, offering some alibi which they both knew he would never endure the humiliation of checking.

As the hours passed he stared at the pattern of the street lights on the ceiling and thought about Oxford and Munich and his marriage, trying to disentangle the three. But however much he tried, the images remained entwined and his methodical mind became disordered with fatigue. By morning the skin beneath his eyes was puffy like black crêpe, and in his tiredness he had shaved too closely, so that his cheeks and chin were raw, pricked with tiny pinpoints of blood.

He was too early for breakfast: the tables were still being laid. Outside, the muggy weather had broken and it was drizzling. The air was a moist cool gauze on his face, the traffic just beginning to build from St James’s Street. Wearing his homburg and his Crombie, his suitcase in his hand, he trudged the shiny wet pavements down the slope towards Downing Street. Against the battleship-grey sky the barrage balloons were barely visible, like tiny silvery fish.

There was a small bedraggled crowd in Downing Street. The workmen had finished the wall of sandbags around the Foreign Office entrance. Six black cars were drawn up from Number 10 all the way back beyond Number 11, pointing towards Whitehall, ready to take the Prime Minister’s party to Heston Aerodrome.

The policeman saluted.

Inside the lobby, three senior Foreign Office officials stood with their suitcases at their feet, like guests waiting to check out of a hotel. He took them in at a glance: William Strang, the tall, dehydrated, broomstick-like figure who had taken over from Wigram as Head of the Central Department and had already been twice with the Prime Minister to visit Hitler; Sir William Malkin, the Foreign Office’s senior Legal Adviser, who had also met Hitler and who looked like a reassuring family solicitor; and the bulky, slope-shouldered Frank Ashton-Gwatkin, Head of Economic Relations, who had spent much of the summer in Czechoslovakia listening to the grievances of the Sudeten Germans, and who was known behind his back, on account of his drooping moustache and lugubrious manner, as the Walrus. Legat thought it a curious trio to send into battle against the Nazis. What must they make of us?

Strang said, ‘I didn’t know you were coming to Munich, Legat.’

‘Neither did I, sir, until late last night.’ He heard the deference in his tone and felt a flicker of self-contempt – the youthful Third Secretary; the promising high-flyer, always careful never to seem too full of himself.

‘Well, I hope you’ve taken something for travel sickness – in my experience, and I’m beginning to acquire a lot of it, flying can be as rough as a Channel crossing.’

‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I haven’t. Will you excuse me for a moment?’

He walked quickly towards the back of the building and found Syers in his office reading The Times. His suitcase was by his desk. He said in a dull voice, ‘Hello, Hugh.’

Legat said, ‘I really am most awfully sorry, Cecil. I didn’t ask to go – I’d honestly prefer to stay behind in London.’

Syers made an effort to look unconcerned. ‘My dear fellow, don’t give it a second’s thought. I always said it ought to be you not me. And Yvonne will be relieved.’

‘Well, it’s very decent of you. When did you hear?’

‘Cleverly told me ten minutes ago.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He simply said he’d changed his mind. Is there anything more to it than that?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’ The lie came easily.

Syers took a step closer and peered at him with concern. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you all right? You look a little rough.’

‘I didn’t sleep much last night.’

‘Nervous about flying?’

‘Not really.’

‘Ever been up in a plane before?’

‘No.’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, as I said to Yvonne this morning, being on the same flight as the Prime Minister must be about as safe as one can get.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’ From the corridor came the sound of voices. Legat smiled and shook hands with Syers. ‘I’ll see you when I get back.’

The Prime Minister had descended from his flat and was walking towards the entrance hall along with Mrs Chamberlain, Horace Wilson, Lord Dunglass and Oscar Cleverly. A pair of detectives followed, carrying the PM’s luggage, including the red dispatch boxes containing his official papers. Behind them trailed two Garden Room secretaries – one a middle-aged woman Legat didn’t recognise, the other Joan. Cleverly noticed him and waited for him to catch up. They walked together. His mouth was clenched, his voice low and angry. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on but I have acceded – with considerable reservations, I might add – to Colonel Menzies’s request to allow you to accompany the PM. You’ll be in charge of his boxes, as well as dealing with anything else that comes up.’ He gave him the keys to the dispatch cases. ‘Make contact with the office as soon as you reach Munich.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I trust I don’t need to emphasise the absolute necessity that you do nothing whatsoever that might imperil the success of this conference?’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘And when this is all over, you and I will need to have a talk about the future.’

‘I understand.’

They had reached the lobby. The Prime Minister was embracing his wife. The Downing Street staff gave him a discreet round of applause. He broke away, smiled shyly, and raised his hat to them. His complexion was ruddy, his eye bright. There was no hint of tiredness. He looked as if he had just come back from the river for breakfast after landing a good salmon. The porter opened the door and he strode out into the rain. He paused to allow his photograph to be taken and then stepped across the pavement and into the first car where Horace Wilson was already waiting. His entourage filed out after him. Unconsciously, they had arranged themselves in order of seniority. Legat was the last to leave, carrying the two red boxes and his own suitcase. He gave them to the driver and climbed into the fourth car, next to Alec Dunglass. The doors slammed and the convoy pulled away – out of Downing Street, into Whitehall, around Parliament Square and south along the river.

It was not at all clear to anyone, including Legat, why Dunglass had been included in the party, except that he was a friendly face with a country house in Scotland, extensive fishing rights on the Tweed, and therefore good for the Prime Minister’s morale. Miss Watson insisted that beneath his diffident manner lurked one of the cleverest politicians she had ever encountered: ‘He will be Prime Minister one day, Mr Legat, mark my words, and you will remember that I was the first to say it.’ But as Dunglass would in due course inherit his father’s title and become the 14th Earl of Home, and as it was inconceivable that in the modern age a premier could sit in the House of Lords, her prediction was dismissed in the Private Office as a folie d’amour. He had a very thin, straight smile and a curious, tight-lipped way of speaking, as if he were practising to be a ventriloquist. After a few desultory exchanges about the rain and what the weather might be like in Munich, they lapsed into silence. Then, as they were passing through Hammersmith, he said abruptly, ‘Did you hear about Winston’s remark to the PM at the end of his speech yesterday?’

‘No. What was that?’

‘He came up to him at the Dispatch Box, while everyone was still cheering, and said, “I congratulate you on your good fortune. You were very lucky.”’ Dunglass shook his head. ‘I mean, really! One can level many charges against Neville – one can argue his policy is entirely wrong – but one can hardly maintain this conference in Munich is a matter of luck: he has worked himself half to death to achieve it.’ He gave Legat a sidelong look. ‘I noticed you were joining in the applause yourself.’

‘I shouldn’t have done that. I’m supposed to be neutral. But one rather got carried away by the mood. I should think nine-tenths of the country were relieved.’

The thin smile came again. ‘Yes, even the socialists were on their feet. It seems we are all appeasers now.’

They had left central London and were motoring into the suburbs. The dual carriageway was wide and modern, lined by pebbledashed semis with small front gardens and privet hedges, interspersed with light industrial factories. Household names gleamed with grim cheerfulness through the pouring rain – Gillette, Beecham’s Powders, Firestone Tyre & Rubber. Chamberlain must have been responsible for a lot of this development, thought Legat, when he was Minister of Housing and then Chancellor of the Exchequer. The country had come through the Depression and was prosperous again. As they drove through Osterley he noticed that people were starting to wave as they passed – a few at first, mostly mothers taking their children to school, but gradually they became more numerous until, when the convoy slowed to turn off right towards Heston, he saw that drivers had pulled over on both sides of the Great West Road and were standing beside their cars.

‘Neville’s people,’ murmured Dunglass without moving his lips.

At the entrance to the aerodrome they came to a halt. Spectators blocked the road. Beyond the chain-link fence and white buildings Legat could see a pair of large planes drawn up on the grass at the edge of the concrete apron, lit by the lights of the newsreel crews, surrounded by a tightly packed crowd of several hundred. Their umbrellas were up. From a distance they looked like a bulbous black fungus. The car moved forwards again, past saluting policemen, through the gate, and then in a wide sweep around the back of the terminal and hangar and on to the airfield where the convoy halted. A policeman opened the rear passenger door of the lead car and the Prime Minister emerged, to cheers.

Dunglass sighed. ‘Well, I suppose this is it.’

He and Legat climbed out. They collected their suitcases and the red boxes – Legat carried one, Dunglass insisted on taking the other – and set off towards the planes. The rain had stopped. The umbrellas were being furled. As they came closer Legat recognised the tall figure of Lord Halifax in his bowler hat and then, to his amazement, Sir John Simon, Sam Hoare and the rest of the Cabinet. He said to Dunglass, ‘Was this in the schedule?’

‘No, it’s a surprise. It was the Chancellor’s idea. I was sworn to secrecy. It seems that suddenly they all want to share his limelight – even Duff.’

The Prime Minister went around shaking hands with his colleagues. The crowd jostled forwards, pressing against the line of policemen for a better view – reporters, airport workers in blue and brown overalls, local people, schoolboys, a mother with a baby in her arms. The newsreel cameras swung to follow Chamberlain’s progress. He was grinning broadly, waving his hat, childish in his delight. Finally, he stood in front of the cluster of microphones.

‘When I was a little boy,’ he began, and paused as those who were still talking were shushed into silence, ‘I used to repeat, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again. That’s what I am doing.’ He had a small piece of paper in his hand and glanced down at it briefly, reminding himself of the line he had prepared, then looked up again. ‘When I come back, I hope I may be able to say, as Hotspur says in Henry IV: “Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.”’ He nodded emphatically. The crowd cheered. He smiled and waved his hat again, milking every last drop of acclaim, then turned towards his plane.

Legat moved forward with Dunglass. They gave their suitcases to the aircrew who were loading the luggage into the belly of the aircraft. Legat kept possession of the red boxes. The Prime Minister shook hands with Halifax and mounted the three metal steps into the back of the plane. He ducked out of sight, then re-emerged for one last round of cheering before vanishing for good. Wilson scuttled up next, followed by Strang, Malkin and Ashton-Gwatkin. Legat stood aside to let Dunglass go ahead of him. Close up, the plane seemed smaller and more fragile than it had at a distance. It was only about forty feet long. He thought one had to admire the Prime Minister’s nerve: when he had first flown to see Hitler he hadn’t even wanted to tell him he was coming until he was in the air, so that the dictator couldn’t refuse to meet him. Standing on the bottom step, looking out at the enthusiastic faces, he felt suddenly intrepid himself, a pioneer.

He stooped to pass through the low door.

Inside the cabin were fourteen seats, seven on either side, with an aisle between them and a door at the far end to the cockpit. The nose of the plane was tilted five or six feet higher than the tail; there was a noticeable slope. It felt small and oddly intimate. The Prime Minister was already in his place at the front, on the left, with Wilson to his right. Legat hoisted the red boxes into the wire luggage rack, removed his coat and hat and stowed them alongside. He took the right-hand seat at the back so that he could see the Prime Minister in case he was needed.

A man in a pilot’s uniform was the last to board. He locked the door after him and walked to the front of the plane.

‘Prime Minister, gentlemen: welcome. My name is Commander Robinson. I am your pilot. This is a Lockheed Electra, operated by British Airways. We shall be flying at an altitude of seven thousand feet, at a maximum speed of two hundred and fifty miles an hour. Our flying time to Munich is approximately three hours. Would you please fasten your safety belts? It may get a little bumpy, so I suggest you keep them fastened unless you need to move around the cabin.’

He went into the cockpit and took the seat next to the co-pilot. Through the open door Legat could see his hand reaching across the instrument panel, flicking switches. One of the engines stuttered into life, then the other. The noise increased. The cabin began to shake. The note seemed to climb a musical scale from bass to treble until it was subsumed into a single deafening sawing noise and the plane lurched forwards on to the grass airfield. They bumped their way over the rough ground for a minute or two, raindrops scudding across the windows, then turned and stopped.

Legat fastened his seat belt. He looked across at the terminal building. Beyond it were white factory chimneys. Columns of smoke rose almost vertically. There was not much wind. That must be good. He felt quite calm. I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above … Perhaps Yeats would have been a more appropriate poet for the Prime Minister to quote than Shakespeare.

The engines became much louder and suddenly the Lockheed began to accelerate across the grass. Legat gripped the armrests as the plane raced past the terminal. Yet still they remained firmly earthbound. Then, just as he thought they were bound to crash into the fence at the edge of the airfield, the bottom of his stomach seemed to fall away and the cabin tilted upwards even more sharply, pressing him back in his seat. The propellers clawed at the air, hauling them into the sky. Slowly they banked and the landscape slid past the window – green fields, red roofs, slick grey streets. He looked down at the Great West Road a couple of hundred feet below, at the semi-detached houses and the cars still drawn up with their drivers beside them, and he saw that in almost every garden people had come out and were craning their heads to the sky and waving – hundreds of them, waving with both arms crossed above their heads in frantic farewell – and then they juddered up into the base of the low cloud and the scene flickered out of sight.

After a few minutes of climbing steeply through thick grey mist they broke free into a burst of sunshine and blueness more beautiful than anything Legat had imagined. A crystal-white vista of peaks and ravines and waterfalls carved out of cloud stretched into the distance. It reminded him of the Bavarian Alps, but purer and unsullied by humanity. The plane levelled off. He unfastened his seat belt and made his way unsteadily towards the front.

‘Excuse me, Prime Minister. I just wanted to let you know I have your boxes whenever you need them.’

Chamberlain was staring out of the window. He looked at Legat. His earlier good spirits seemed to have left him. Or perhaps, thought Legat, they had only ever been a show for the crowds and the cameras. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I suppose we had better make a start.’

Wilson said, ‘Why don’t you have some breakfast first, PM? Hugh, would you mind asking the pilot?’

Legat put his head into the cockpit. ‘Sorry to bother you, but where might I find some food?’

‘There’s a locker at the back, sir.’

Legat lingered for a moment, briefly mesmerised once more by the sight of the clouds through the windscreen, then turned back to the cabin. Strang, Malkin, Ashton-Gwatkin, even Dunglass – now they all looked pensive. In the rear of the plane he found the locker. Two wicker hampers stencilled with the name of the Savoy Hotel were crammed full of neatly wrapped and labelled packages: grouse and smoked salmon sandwiches, pâté and caviar, bottles of claret and beer and cider, flasks of tea and coffee. It seemed an inappropriate feast, a picnic for a day at the races. He carried the hampers to the empty seats in the middle of the plane. Dunglass got up to help him distribute it all. The Prime Minister took a cup of tea and refused everything else. He sat very upright, holding his saucer in his left hand, his little finger crooked primly as he sipped. Legat retreated to his seat with coffee and a smoked salmon sandwich.

After a while, Strang went past him to the toilet cubicle. He stopped on his way back, buttoning his flies.

‘Everything all right?’ The Head of the Central Department was another official who had gone through the war and had retained the habit of talking to his subordinates as if he were inspecting their trench.

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

‘“The condemned men ate a hearty breakfast …?”’ He folded his tall frame into the seat beside Legat’s. He was in his mid-forties but looked sixty. His suit exuded a faint aroma of pipe tobacco. ‘Do you realise you’re the only man on this plane who speaks German?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that, sir.’

Strang gazed out of the window. ‘Let’s hope this landing’s better than the last one. There was a rainstorm over Munich. The pilot couldn’t see a thing. We ended up being thrown around all over the place. The only person who didn’t seem to mind was the PM.’

‘He’s quite a cool customer.’

‘Isn’t he? One never really knows what’s going through his mind.’ He leaned across the aisle and spoke more quietly. ‘I just wanted to give you a gentle warning, Hugh. You haven’t been through this before. There’s a chance this whole thing could turn out to be a fiasco. We have no agreed agenda. No preliminary work has been done. There are no official papers. If it breaks down and Hitler grabs the chance to invade Czechoslovakia after all, we could be in the ludicrous position of having the leaders of Britain and France both stranded in Germany on the outbreak of war.’

‘Surely that’s not likely?’

‘I was with the PM in Bad Godesberg. We thought we had an agreement then, until Hitler suddenly came up with a new set of demands. It’s not like dealing with a normal head of government. He’s more like some barbarian chieftain out of a Germanic legend – Ermanaric, Theodoric – with his housecarls gathered around him. They leap up when he comes in and he freezes them with a look, asserts his authority, and then he settles down at a long table to feast with them, and to laugh and boast. Who’d want to be in the PM’s shoes, trying to negotiate with such a creature?’

The pilot appeared in the doorway of the cockpit. ‘Gentlemen, just to let you know – we have crossed the English Channel.’

The Prime Minister glanced down the plane and gestured to Legat. ‘I think we’d better start work on those boxes now.’