The Abominable: A Novel

in his mouth.

“You American fellows are putting me—and His Majesty’s Government—in the most frightful position,” he boomed from across the wide desk. He opened a box of cigars and shoved them across the expanse. “Cigar, Mr. Perry? Or a cigarette, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, sir.” I had no idea what he was talking about with the “frightful position” line. Certainly it couldn’t be in the pending handover of the envelope holding seven damning photographs and negatives that I had tucked in my oversized jacket pocket. I just wanted to get on with that exchange and to get the hell out of this office, and London.

“It’s the war debt, man,” said this Churchill person. “Great Britain owes you Yanks the rather preposterous sum of four billion, nine hundred thirty-three million, seven hundred one thousand, and six hundred forty-two pounds. The annual interest payment on that alone is more than thirty-five million pounds a year. And your President and Secretary of State and Treasury Secretary keep clamoring for payment on time. I ask you, Mr. Perry, how will that be possible until France pays His Majesty’s Government more of what they owe us on their war debt? Heaven knows France is getting its reparation payments and share of German steel sales coming out of the Ruhr Valley, but the French are as slow to pay as a renter who puts all his monthly income on the lottery rather than give it to his landlord.”

I nodded vaguely. My throat had improved sufficiently during my weeks in India and at sea that I could speak now with only a slight rasp rather than my former frog’s croak, but I could think of nothing to say. All I knew was that the envelope with the photos seemed to be burning a hole into the upper-right part of my chest, and if this fat little man didn’t shut up and quit blowing cigar smoke in my direction, I was going to leap across that too-broad desk and strangle the son of a bitch, American-British relations be damned.

“Well, not your fault, not your fault,” said Chancellor of the Exchequer Churchill. “Do you have the items with you?”

I said, probably breaking fifty rules of spy craft, “Do you mean the photographs and negatives from Lord Percival, sir?”

“Yes, yes.” He stubbed out the cigar and crossed his pudgy fingers over his chest.

I removed the envelope and set it as far across his desk as I could reach without standing up. To my shock, Churchill didn’t even glance at the envelope before one of those pudgy hands swept it up and slipped it into a red briefcase propped next to his feet.

“Good, then,” he said.

I took that as my dismissal and stood to leave.

“This is Friday,” said Churchill, still sitting, not rising even to shake my hand before I left. And I knew what goddamned day it was. I’d made the appointment with his lackeys for this day.

“I believe we should chat about the circumstances surrounding the acquisition of these items,” said Churchill. “Do you have anything on for tomorrow?”

On for tomorrow? What the hell was that supposed to mean? I’d never felt as alone and stranded as I had the last few days waiting here in London without the Deacon and Jean-Claude. These British people spoke a strange and cloudy language.

Churchill must have seen my vacant look, for he said, “For dinner, I mean.”

“No, sir,” I replied with a sinking feeling in my gut. I didn’t want to socialize with this…mere man…who I was sure had gotten three of my dearest friends killed, as well as my friend’s cousin.

“We shall plan on you dropping down to Chartwell sometime in the afternoon, then,” he said as if it were already an agreed-upon thing. “Clemmie’s not there this weekend, but we have a few very amusing dinner guests, and of course the children will be there. Come get a good meal, Mr. Perry, spend the night, and we shall talk more at length when we have some privacy.

“We do dress for dinner,” continued the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I’d read somewhere that he was 50 years old, but between the roly-poly appearance, flushed fat-baby cheeks, and bouncy energy, he seemed much younger. “Did you happen to bring white tie, tails, that sort of thing with you to London?”

“No, sir,” I said. I was already sick unto death of calling this Churchill nobody “sir.” “Just this suit I’m wearing.”

Churchill nodded judiciously, then pushed a lever on a contraption on his desk. The male secretary who’d seen me in appeared as if by magic. “Colonel Taylor,” said Churchill, “could you run this chap around the corner to my tailor at Savile Row and have him expedite a proper suit of evening clothes as well as a summer and autumn suit or two and perhaps a pair of pyjamas and some shirts and proper ties…by tomorrow noon, please. And tell them the bill is to be paid by His Majesty’s Treasury.”

I didn’t even know what to think of this, much less what to say—since all I wanted to say was I don’t need white tie and tails and I don’t need your damned charity, either—so I nodded at Churchill, who’d lighted a fresh cigar and was already perusing some papers even before I was out of the room.

“Wait,” I said, stopping and turning. “One thing.”

The round face with its cherubic little smile looked across the width of the room at me and waited.

“What and where is Chartwell?” I heard myself ask.

29.

Chartwell was Churchill’s country place near Westerham in Kent, some twenty-five miles from London. I dropped by to pick up my new clothes at the tailor’s at noon, tried them on, let the tailor pronounce them proper, stayed in one of the white shirts they’d chosen for me and in the tan linen suit they’d just made for me—the tailor chose a modest green and burgundy tie for it—and caught the 1:15 train with the help of a waiting car sent by the Ministry. (Which “Ministry” I had no idea.) Another such chauffeur-driven limousine picked me up at the Westerham station and drove me the few miles to Chartwell proper.

I’d expected another huge estate such as Lady Bromley’s or the one I’d heard described that Richard Davis Deacon had given up after the War, but Chartwell looked more like a comfortable house in the country somewhere in Massachusetts. I was to learn much later that rather than its having been in the Churchill family for a dozen generations, Chartwell—a rather plain brick house made ugly by additions and bad landscaping in the 1800s—had been fairly recently purchased and more or less rebuilt by Churchill’s workmen.

And by Churchill himself.

After I’d been shown to a room by a servant and had time to “freshen up” a bit, an older male servant came to the room and told me that Mr. Churchill would like to see me and asked if the time was convenient for me. I told him it was.

I expected to be led into a huge library, but instead the tall gray-haired servant who’d answered my query about his name only with “Mason, sir” led me around to the side of the house where Winston Churchill, wearing a white fedora and a dark mortar-spattered coverall, was laying bricks.

“Ho, welcome, Mr. Perry,” he cried, using a trowel to level off some mortar before laying another brick in place.

It was a long wall.

“I spend ten hours a day in my office in London, but this is my real work,” continued Churchill. I’d already come to realize that the monologue was his favorite form of conversation. “This and writing histories. I took care to contact the bricklayers’ union before I did my first wall. They made me an honorary member, but I still pay my dues. My real work this week has been two thousand words written and two hundred bricks laid.”

He set the trowel down and, taking me suddenly by the elbow, led me around to the back of the house.

“The ‘Cosy Pig,’ I call it,” said Churchill.

“Call what, sir?” I said.

“Why, the house, of course. Chartwell. And if you’re Mr. Perry, then I am Mr. Churchill; no more ‘sirs.’”

“All right,” I said, just avoiding uttering the “sir.”

We stopped on a patio amidst a low formal garden, but it wasn’t the garden that the Chancellor of the Exchequer had brought me around the house to see. “This is why I bought the place three years ago,” he said.