She was getting less nervous around him after doing this numerous times. However, the smoke still made her nauseous.
‘Very sad business, Julia. Very sad.’
‘It is, sir. Mr Chamberlain was a good man.’
‘Didn’t deserve it. Served his country well,’ added Churchill, wistfully.
‘Yes, sir, he did.’ She rolled in her papers and carbon and sat with her fingers poised above the typewriter keys.
‘Got to think of a lot of nice things to say about him now for the funeral. We didn’t always get on, but I had a great deal of respect for the former prime minster.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
Churchill shook his head. As she waited for him to start, Julia thought about what she knew about Neville Chamberlain. She knew that he’d been opposed to the war, had wanted appeasement, pursuing talks with Mussolini, the Italian dictator, to try and bring about a peaceful solution. He had presented some of the same arguments when she had taken notes in the war room before they had bombed Berlin. She also knew that the king had offered him the Order of the Garter, the highest British honour that could be bestowed. But Chamberlain had refused, saying he’d prefer to die plain Mr Chamberlain, like his father before him, rather than being adorned with a title.
But everyone knew he’d been ill. The last time she’d seen him had been on 19 September when he was leaving London. He had come down to the bunker to speak to Churchill, and she’d passed him in the hallway. He hadn’t looked well then, pale and thin with hollowed-out cheeks. He’d looked like he’d been in pain, half the man he used to be. He had given his resignation on 22 September, and she knew that Churchill had wanted him to stay on after being prime minister to supervise the work on the home front. But he’d just not been well enough, and now he was gone. Another significant loss for their country.
Churchill’s voice brought Julia back into the present moment. As she began to type, she was struck by one particular passage:
‘Whatever else history may or may not say about these terrible, tremendous years, we can be sure that Neville Chamberlain acted with perfect sincerity according to his lights and strove to the utmost of his capacity and authority, which were powerful, to save the world from the awful, devastating struggle in which we are now engaged. This alone will stand him in good stead as far as what is called the verdict of history is concerned.’
She wished with a saddened heart the former prime minister had been successful with his pursuance of peace.
She carried on typing as Churchill talked eloquently of his relationship and admiration for the man who’d often been very opposed to him, particularly at the beginning of the war.
After he was finished, she made her way out of the room and back to the typing pool. Carol looked up from her typewriter. ‘You heard anything from John?’
She and Julia spoke every day, as both of their husbands were in North Africa together.
Julia smiled. ‘I got a letter this morning. He sent some funny jokes for Tom and a drawing for Maggie. I’ll be sure to post it all on to them. What about you?’
‘Nothing for a week now.’
Julia felt the sting again of missing her family. Her children’s faces swam into her thoughts and it hurt so much to think none of her family were around her for comfort when news like this hit. No special cuddles with Tom or thoughtful acts from her daughter, who would do things to cheer her mother, like picking flowers when she was sad. Worst of all no husband’s arms to hold her in the middle of the night when she felt so desperate.
Sally sat back in her seat. ‘I’m glad I haven’t anyone in the war. It’d be horrible waiting around to see what happened to them. Mind you, there may not be much left for me to pick over if this war keeps on. I might die an old maid at this rate,’ she chuckled, rolling in a sheet of paper, and her infectious laugh made the whole typing pool smile.
Julia finished the address and read it over, and three days later read it again in the newspaper. Chamberlain’s funeral had been kept secret for safety’s sake. But he’d been buried at Westminster with all the pomp and ceremony of a state funeral, and the nation had grieved once again for another good man who