Asquith speaks before I decide upon my words. “I wish that there had been another way, Clementine. We needed to show the country was unified in its decision-making.”
How dare he intimate that he’d been forced into firing Winston. I will not placate him. I say nothing, forcing him to entrench himself further in his indefensible position.
“I know it will seem small consolation at the moment, but I promise you this, Clementine. I will protect Winston as best as I can so that—in the future—he can play the role to which he was born.”
While I’m pleased with Asquith’s acknowledgment of Winston’s potential and impending greatness—even though I doubt his promise to protect my husband—I wonder how the torpid, self-serving Asquith knew precisely how to manipulate me. I’d believed him to be utterly disconnected from anyone’s feelings or motivations other than his own.
But I was wrong. He knows I will do whatever necessary to protect my husband. Even if it means temporary silence.
Chapter Seventeen
September 22 and November 4, 1915
Surrey and London, England
“Do you think you can put these to any use?” I say, trying to keep the irritation from my tone as I hand Winston the box of paints and brushes from Goonie’s collection, which the children also use from time to time. I am careful not to allow the paint to splatter on my dress. Money is scarce these days, and my clothes must last, even the simple ones.
“They’re utterly botching this war. For nearly six months, I’ve been forced to sit idly by with long, tedious days of unsolicited leisure”—he gestures around to the picturesque rolling hills of Surrey surrounding us—“while those fiends in London cast away all chance at victory. To think of the thousands of lives lost because of their egos and ineptitude.”
“Did you hear me, Winston?” I interrupt his vitriol with a question, my hand still outstretched. This time, I don’t bother to mask my annoyance. I’ve heard this tirade before countless times, and while I fully agree with his point of view, I cannot countenance it anymore. Giving voice to these sentiments only serves to further enrage him.
“I did, I did,” he grumbles without a word of apology. His mood has become so dark as of late. He treats his depression as if it’s something separate and apart from himself. But I believe that it’s his visceral reaction to being expelled from the center of power.
But Winston isn’t done spewing his bitter sentiments. He practically yells, “Do you really think a daub of paint will bring back those soldiers?”
My free hand shifts to my hip, and I match his tone. “Do you really think that it’s appropriate to speak to your wife in that manner? I am not one of your subordinates, Winston.” I dislike the loud voice and tyrannical manner in which he’s begun to speak to our staff and, when he was in office, those who reported to him, although I had no control over that realm. In this realm, however, I will not sit by quietly while he screams at me or the servants, no matter how frustrated he is with his current position.
His eyes widen as he realizes the impact of his words. “I am sorry, Clemmie. It’s just the headlines getting under my skin.” He reaches for the box of paints, saying, “Hand them over. Let me see what havoc I can wreak with them.”
The mild summer days spent in the bucolic landscape surrounding Hoe Farm in Hascombe near Godalming in Surrey had served as salve for Winston’s wounded pride at first, particularly with regular visits by the newly engaged Nellie and occasionally her fiancé, Bertram Romilly, a rather quiet fellow from a reputable military family. Together with Goonie and our gaggle of children, we explored the nearby woodlands by daylight and dined on favorite foods in the picturesque fifteenth-century stone manor house by night. But the comforts of Hoe Farm proved short-lived.
Within weeks, I find Winston sitting despondently at his desk instead of gallivanting with the children, who he has recently found overwhelming, particularly Randolph, who is prone to teasing and naughtiness. Even though he still sits on the Cabinet and War Council, he has been marginalized, and his new position as chancellor of the duchy of Lancaster, an empty role given to ousted politicians, has no demands, and he cannot tolerate his ostracism from the center of power at this critical moment in our nation’s history. It is the worst imaginable punishment for a man who sees himself as essential. When I examine his blank stare and slack expression, I feel as though I am watching him grieve for a lost part of himself.
The brush and paint provide him with a diversion. I recruit our friend John Lavery, a talented painter of portraits and landscapes, and his wife, Hazel, who is herself a wonderful artist, to give Winston lessons and guidance in his endeavors. And when his interest seems to wane, I offer my husband further distraction in the form of trips to the National Gallery for artistic inspiration. The barrage of negative headlines about the botched military decisions by the new coalition government, however, undermines any delight he finds in his canvases, and people we thought were friends abandon us—even Violet disavows Winston once and for all and becomes engaged to Sir Maurice Bonham-Carter. I soon realize that nothing will appease my husband’s pain except a return to action. And if politics can no longer be his pathway, I will find him another.
* * *
Drinks in hand, we sit before the fire at Jack and Goonie’s London home, where we’ve gone to stay for the time being as a necessary economy for both families. Always sensitive to the moods of others, Goonie has taken over the task of seeing the children to bed, understanding that Winston and I need time alone. His mood has been black since he returned home from Parliament today.
“I’ve been excluded from the newly reorganized War Council,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire.
The news does not surprise me. His place on the prior war cabinet had been a holdover from his days as lord admiral, and he had power in name only. As a result, I’d perceived Winston’s hopes of inclusion in the new War Council as far-fetched in light of the Dardanelles and would not indulge conversation about his efforts. Time and noteworthy acts outside the government are the only way to heal his blighted reputation, I’d come to believe. But Winston, typically impatient, does not want to play the long game.
I nod in sympathy. “That’s unfortunate, Pug. But there may be other ways to restore your position.”
“Oh really, Clementine? Are you suggesting I have not thought of everything?” He speaks sharply to me, and I grow quiet, closing around myself like an oyster around its pearl. I wait for the apology I know will come, as his mounting despair has yielded many outbursts and has required many apologies.
“Kitten, I’m sorry. This damnable business of isolation is driving me mad. Please share your ideas with me,” he offers.
I breathe in deeply. I have an unorthodox proposal for him, which, in truth, stems from a seed that he himself planted. Until now, I have brooked no discussion about this idea, but I know that I must bury my own needs and anxieties about Winston’s safety to offer him this avenue toward hope.
“Actually, it’s an idea of yours about which I’ve finally come around.”
“What idea?” His brows knit in confusion, an expression I see rarely upon his face. His mind operates so quickly that he is rarely perplexed.
“Volunteering your services for the front.” I will myself to sound strong and confident. I cannot allow my voice to quiver with the fear inside me.
“Th-the front?” The stutter to which he reverts in times of great stress emerges. Is it prompted by the thought of fighting alongside soldiers in the dangerous muck of the trenches? Or is he shocked that—after eschewing the idea for months—I am now suggesting it myself?
“Yes, Pug. As usual, you were wise in your proposal.” I use the word proposal, although his regular rants about resigning his position and enlisting in the army are hardly fully formed plans. They are closer to empty threats. But I now take him at his word. I must.
“
Go to the front? Really, Clemmie?”
Is he asking the question of me or himself? I wonder.
“I’ve come to believe that it is the only way to salvage your reputation and restore power. Politics will not deliver you there.”
“By fighting in the front line?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation, even though the specter of injury and death looms large in my consciousness.
He stands up and paces around the room, puffing on his cigar. “It could work, Clemmie. It would show the PM and the people that if I’m prevented from commanding the war from afar, I am willing to fight alongside the men in the trenches. That my dedication to our country is unshakable.”
“And that your bravery knows no bounds.” I rise from my chair and stand before him.
“Yes,” he says with a nod, “it demonstrates courage and self-sacrifice. A quality in short supply among most men of my class. I will write a letter to Asquith today, resigning from this ridiculous chancellor post and offering my services to the front.” He wraps his arms around me, whispering, “What would I do without you, my sweet kitten?”
“You will never have to know, Pug,” I whisper back.
Chapter Eighteen
November 16, 1915, to April 6, 1916
London, England
At different points in my marriage, I believed that Winston had put me to the test. There were the long days at Admiralty House where I juggled the management of the house and our three children, the necessary social engagements, and the constant counsel my husband demanded. The weeks ordered to my bed, where I healed from my miscarriage while Winston dined with Violet, presented particular challenges. I perceived the dark months after Winston’s public blame for the Dardanelles to be the worst of my married life. But I was wrong in thinking that I’d experienced trials.
From the moment Winston dons his uniform and heads to the Franco-Belgian border at Ploegsteert as a lowly major in the Oxfordshire Hussars, my responsibilities reach new heights. His constant stream of letters shows admirable optimism for the savage conditions, regular gunfire, and constant downpours, a record of only eighteen days without rain in a five-month span. But they also contain demands for a bevy of impossible-to-obtain items—sheepskin sleeping bags, a bathtub made of tin with an accompanying copper boiler, leather waistcoats, hampers of cigars and chocolate, even periscopes—for which I scrounge and then send to the front. All while managing the children and the house we share with Goonie on a tiny fraction of his old lord admiral salary.
Yet sourcing these scarce objects is an easier task than the more intangible goals he lays out for me. He wants me to fight on his behalf here in England as he fights for English liberty in France. I am to lay the groundwork for his return to power.
Anything that might repair his damaged reputation and provide opportunity upon his return from the trenches, I undertake and report back to Winston in our regular exchange of letters. I court journalists who might plant favorable nuggets about Winston in the papers. I lunch with governmental figures who could suggest him for posts. I manage urgent constituent affairs, as Winston never relinquished his parliamentary seat. I meet with Lloyd George, as we believe that he may succeed Asquith one day. I even deign to court the Asquiths, hosting them for bridge and several rounds of golf, as a hedge against our bets in the event that Lloyd George does not ultimately prevail.
But Winston does not praise me for these efforts. He pushes for further bolstering of the Churchill name. I decide to undertake my own projects, focusing on those near to my heart—women and workers. The front is in dire need of emergency gas masks, so I design a campaign enlisting housewives to make them. I join the Munition Workers’ Auxiliary Committee to run nine canteens across northern London, offering meals day and night for the critical munitions workers to ensure they have adequate food, as company managers often fail to provide enough for their around-the-clock shifts. As I do, I insist that the female munitions workers—of which there are more every day—have the same rights to canteen breaks as the men.
I work nearly as many hours as the armaments laborers, much to the criticism of women of my acquaintance who find my efforts among the working class unsavory. But instead of finding the long days and physical work taxing—particularly once I give up our motor out of financial necessity and have to reach the far-flung canteens by patchwork routes of the train combined with the tube or trams—I discover that I find it exhilarating and rewarding to be in the thick of things, even as my hours with the children grow fewer. The exertion also helps stave off my constant worry about Winston’s well-being.
“A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill, ma’am.” The pert young maid, whose name I can never recall, hands me an envelope when I arrive home at midnight after a long evening serving munitions laborers at the canteen.
I thank her and take the letter as she slides off my coat.
Except for the rustle of my coat as the maid hangs it in the wardrobe and the tick of the grandfather clock in the front hallway, the house is silent. Under Goonie’s capable supervision—much more capable than my own—the children have been served their suppers, bathed, and tucked into their beds. How long has it been since I read Randolph, Diana, and Sarah a bedtime story? I wonder. That ritual was once my favorite, a bright light amid the onerous darkness of children’s chores. As I ponder whether the children have even noticed my absence, a troubling thought strikes me. Have I ever read a bedtime tale to the eighteen-month-old Sarah?
What sort of mother have I become? Is it the war and Winston that have made me so remote? Or is it an unfortunate consequence of my upbringing? A failing in my nature?
I pour myself a short brandy and sink into the settee in the study. What will today’s letter from Winston contain? Detailed descriptions of the front, with its water-logged trenches and battalions of lice? Lists of obscure items I’m meant to procure despite the rationing of wartime? A detailed description of how he very nearly missed being hit by a shell, but that I was not to worry? At the very least, I will be spared the diatribe over whether he should be given a brigade or a battalion to command, now that the matter has been settled. My concern about his well-being buzzes like an insect in the back of my every thought and action, and even though I sometimes cannot restrain myself from writing that I wish he could come home, I try to stay strong and banish my fears to the back of my consciousness.
Before I read the letter, I pick up the blurry snapshot lying in the center of the table abutting the settee. Cut from the Daily Mirror on the day he left for war, it shows Winston in his uniform. I recall the herculean effort it took for me to remain stoic that day amid the melodramatic weeping of Jennie and the wailing of the children. I knew that Winston needed my brave face, not my tears, so I waited until he left to submit to my sobs. I kiss the hazy photo; no image of him has ever made me prouder.
As I slice open the envelope, pages of Winston’s scrawling handwriting spill onto the floor. As I assemble them in order, a phrase jumps out at me. I believe it is time for my return. Surely I have read his words out of context. After all, while his prior letters had enumerated his dissatisfaction with the governmental decisions, he had always written that he would not return unless he was wounded or could resume governmental control.
I begin with the first page. Glancing over familiar complaints about the way in which governmental decisions are playing out on the battlefield and in the trenches, I also see a description of the alternate, much preferable plans he’d pursue if given the opportunity. My eyes linger on the final line on the second-to-last page, in which he maintains that he’s necessary for England’s success in the war.
My stomach lurches. I flip to the final page, but I already know what words I will find there. I believe it is time for my return. It is the very thing for which I have been simultaneously wishing and dreading.
I place the letter down on my desk with a shaking hand. I want my husband ho
me and safe by my side. Of course I do. I want to relinquish the worries about him that plague my waking hours. But it is not yet time. He has not even been at the front for six months, while most young soldiers have suffered there for a year or more. And none of those men are living in the relative luxury Winston enjoys, with regular hot baths, brandy and chocolate, a sheepskin sleeping bag, and a ready supply of fresh boots and clothes. I pray that he keeps these indulgences private, as he would surely annoy his fellow soldiers and undo all the messaging he’s trying to telegraph to the government.
How can he even think of coming back from the front prematurely? I know from all my conversations with governmental leaders and military men, undertaken at Winston’s behest, that he must stay longer to repair his reputation. He may even have to wait for the rumored Dardanelles Commission to meet and exonerate him. He needs to honor my months of laying groundwork and wait for the people and the government to beg him to return. Otherwise, his risks and our family’s sacrifice will be in vain.
But how can I do what I must? How could I live with myself if something happened to him? I steel myself to undertake the necessary, but unthinkable, task.
Rising from the settee, I settle at the desk. Dipping my pen into the ink, my hand shakes as I begin to write words that will whip my impatient husband into a fury. But I also know that he will listen to me as he will no one else.
III
Chapter Nineteen
January 2 and March 21, 1921
London, England, and Cairo, Egypt
As I’d hoped, Winston climbed in the days after his return from the trenches—beginning with minister of munitions, then ascending to secretary of state for war and air after Lloyd George replaced Asquith as prime minister. But with each step upward, the demands upon me grew. The end of the Great War did not bring a reprieve, because within four days of its end, our fourth child, the ginger-haired Marigold, was born, on November 15, 1918. Her birth and the end of the fighting did bring joy, and when Winston helped negotiate and witness the signing of the Treaty of Versailles in May 1919, I felt incredible pride. But my pride did not reduce my responsibilities, particularly since our peripatetic home life and insufficient funds required me to orchestrate moves from one temporary abode to another every few months until our most recent move to Sussex Square. This constant shifting of homes, too reminiscent of my unhappy, itinerant childhood, layered strain upon my already stretched nerves. I struggled along for years, desperately trying to ignore my situation, until I suddenly couldn’t.
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