It was a going to be a red day. His red woolly dressing gown with the black piping. The last, late crimson wallflowers nestling in the cracks between the paving stones just beyond his window. A ruby red broom by the flint wall at the back of the terrace. Delicate, beautiful crimson bergamot like burst pincushions in the herb bed. A streak of pink in the sky, and a startling magenta legal pad to replace the blue one he had used up in the effort to finish his Russian leader.
Alex was searching for a red poem in an anthology of First War poets – Owen, Graves, Sassoon – weren’t half the poems of 1914-18 called Flanders Poppies? – when he noticed his younger son leaning in the doorway of his study.
‘Still on Russia?’
‘Need you ask?’
‘Bert and I no longer see eye to eye on the matter. I shall write my piece, and Bert will surely write his.’
‘I thought I might give you a hand.’
‘Freddie – if your contribution is to be as helpful as your last, I may do better without it.’
Troy pulled out a chair and sat opposite his father.
‘I have news of the invasion.’
Alex scarcely looked at him, flicked through the index of first lines, still looking for a red poem.
‘Unless you have a date for it I doubt it will help. The world and his wife know it will come. When is what matters.’
‘June 22nd. About dawn.’
He had his father’s attention now. Alex let the book fall closed and reached for a pencil.
About an hour later Alex had scribbled furiously over half a dozen of the magenta sheets. Troy said, ‘Are we ready for this?’
‘No,’ said his father. ‘We are not ready. Stalin has had most of the cream of the Red Army shot. We were better equipped in 1935 than we are now. But it will be the Germans’ greatest folly nonetheless . . .’
Realising he had unleashed a lecture where he had wanted merely an answer, Troy ducked out when the telephone rang. His father picked up the receiver and waved to him.
‘Alex?’
Beaverbrook. Again.
‘I thought I’d plan ahead a little this time. Winston wants to see the editors.’
This was wishful. Most of the newspapers would send deputies and flunkies to any briefing.
‘I was wondering – let me add your name to the list.’
‘When?’ said Alex.
‘Tomorrow at ten. In the bunker.’
‘The bunker?’
‘Cabinet War Rooms under Storey’s Gate – you know, round the back by Horse Guard’s Parade. Now – can I add your name to the list?’
‘What is it the Prime Minister has to say to us?’
‘You won’t know that unless you turn up. What do you say?’
‘I’ll be there. But Max – a favour. Just put “representative of Troy papers”. Don’t put my name.’
‘Of course – it’s Winston’s show – he’d hate to be upstaged.’
Beaverbrook laughed at his own joke and hung up.
Alex leafed through the pages of notes he had taken as his son talked. June 22nd. He reached for his diary, wondering what day of the week that was. A Sunday – or, as Hider most certainly saw it, very late Saturday night. Hitler pulled all his strokes on Saturdays. He had butchered Roehm and the SA on a Saturday, he had reintroduced conscription on a Saturday, he had retaken the Rhineland on a Saturday. Perhaps he thought to catch Russia napping or ‘gone fishin’?