The mention of Hitler’s name elicits a chorus of boos and hissing. Churchill raises his hand. ‘And, as a result, this great country that we love . . . ’ he leans against the dispatch box, letting his words sink in ‘ . . . now faces a threat more grave than any in the last thousand years.’
Someone shouts: ‘Hear, Hear!’ Churchill brings the palm of his hand down on the dispatch box with a loud bang. ‘Across the Channel, for the last three years, a war has been going on for the hearts and minds of the French people, as Nazi propaganda attempts to poison the minds of our allies.’ He thumps the dispatch box for a second time. His voice drips with disdain. ‘A war we are losing.’
Martin and Hugh exchange glances as more cheers, even louder this time, echo round the red-painted walls of the debating chamber. People begin to stamp their feet. Martin does not join in.
‘Yet, here, in Great Britain, we have so far only made . . . ’ he sneers ‘ . . . gestures of defiance.’ Martin feels Churchill’s eyes as he rakes the hall with a glare. ‘But we have reached a point where gestures are not enough!’
A shout goes up from the gallery: two students are flailing their fists. Others join in. The noise gets louder and louder. Churchill pulls the red handkerchief from his breast pocket, mops his brow. ‘We want not only gestures,’ he calls out to the crowd, letting the words sink in. ‘We want an army!’ Another wave of stamping and cheering erupts from the crowd. Churchill presses his hands down on the dispatch box, stares defiantly out at the crowd, and roars: ‘And that quite soon!’
A huge cheer goes up. People spring to their feet. Martin and Hugh remain seated, clapping enthusiastically.
The President gets to his feet. ‘And now, my honourable friends, the time has come to vote on our motion. Ayes to the right, please. Nos to the left.’
There is a cacophony of benches scraping, coughs and stamping feet, as the audience gets to its feet and files out of the debating chamber. As Martin reaches the brass rail dividing the votes, he hesitates, then steps to the right.
Martin and Hugh follow the crowds to the Eagle and Child pub, known to generations of Oxford students as the Fowl and Foetus. C. S. Lewis and Tolkien can normally be found in the back room talking about hobbits and magic wardrobes with other members of ‘The Inklings’. Not tonight. It’s bedlam. The heat is intense, the air blue with smoke. Everyone is arguing about the debate.
‘They should bloody shoot that Stephen King chap,’ a plummy-voiced young Trinity student sneers. ‘Or send him off to the Soviet Union!’
‘Liddell Hart’s not much better!’ his companion snipes. ‘Total Bolshie. Even looks like Lenin!’
Martin rolls his eyes as he tries to wriggle his way through the crowds to the bar. ‘The usual?’ he calls back to Hugh. Hugh gives him the thumbs-up.
Martin keeps trying to attract the barman’s attention, but he is wedged between two rugby players. He’s impatient. Can’t wait to get back to his room and write to Nancy about what has happened. The motion was easily carried. But though he knows the outcome has no ultimate meaning, he feels as though the war, which until now had seemed far away, has crept one step closer to their lives, like a fog rolling across winter fields.
Finally, he manages to commandeer two pints and edges his way back through the jostling, shouting crowd, holding the glasses above his head.
‘Cheers!’ says Hugh, relieving him of one of the glasses.
‘Cheers!’ Martin takes a long, deep draught. ‘So, what did you think?’
‘Exciting.’ Hugh has to shout to make himself heard. ‘You?’
Martin gulps his beer. His heart is torn between two powerful emotions: his love for Nancy and his feeling of duty towards his country. A third emotion – anger at Hitler – only adds to the waves crashing against each other inside him.
‘It’s still sinking in,’ he says to Hugh, not yet ready to share his feelings, even to a good friend.
On his way back to Teddy Hall, Martin stops and looks up into the sky. It’s as clear as a bell and is like a sheet of black satin, the stars a thousand glimmering diamonds. He imagines Nancy looking up into the same sky at Blythe Cottage, two young people at a crossroads in their lives. At that moment, a plane passes overhead, its lights clearly visible.
The first thing he does when he gets back to his room is pour himself a large, dry martini and light a cigarette. The gas fire sputters. On the desk is a pewter tankard engraved with the college crest. Her Christmas gift. And a letter with a poem written by her.
I took a ladder from the wall
And held it up against the sky
And said, ‘I’ll climb the steps
And pick some stars
And throw them down to you.
That, when soft summer comes,
We’ll plait a basket
And walk, hand in hand,
Giving our stars to children
By the way; yes, all but one
That one our love shall light
Both day and night.’
Martin smiles, reads it again, then takes a sheet of writing paper and spreads it on the table. Inhales deeply on his cigarette, unscrews his pen and writes the words ‘Claire de lune’.
It’s his nickname for her: a play on her second name, Claire, and one of their favourite pieces of music, ‘Clair de lune’, by Claude Debussy.
I just got back from the debate on conscription. The Union voted for conscription by 430 votes to 370. So everything hangs fire, not only the season. Everyone is uncertain what conscription will mean to us. It is harder than ever to concentrate on my studies. There is so much more to do and experience and so many other places to explore. I know all this has been thought by other young people since time immemorial but it strikes all of us just now because these ideas have been highlighted by the gloom of war.
I’ve never bothered you talking about engagements or marriage and I think you feel the same way. But I’m a little frightened, so it’s natural to want to hold your hand more tightly, isn’t it? I’m hopelessly in love with you and want to keep you for myself for the rest of my life. I understand why you want to wait. And I respect that. I don’t mind waiting. I can be patient, although it’s hard. I’m full of emotional energy but also a bit patrician, so there is always a struggle going on inside me. I’m extravagant, a little unscrupulous, a little lazy, and rather too pleased with myself. But I have some good points, which I hope you can see.
Aunt D. came to tea yesterday with Dr Brann, an evacuee from Heidelberg, who she is putting up at Whichert House with his wife and child, until they can find somewhere of their own in Oxford. He told us all the latest from Germany. He says they are rounding up all the Jews and putting them in special camps. Can you believe this is happening in the country that gave the world Beethoven?
The clock of St Giles strikes ten. He looks at his watch. Pours himself another drink and lights a second cigarette. Scribbles on.
Did you see the sky tonight? Flawless, and infinite, with the stars pointed to it and shining goldenly. As I was walking, a solitary aeroplane