Lady Clementine

by Marie Benedict

  “This isn’t for me, Clementine, but for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. I want to send you home to London with a reminder of the peace you achieved on this journey. Of the person you truly are.”

  * * *

  “Clemmie, did you hear what I said about the digger?” Winston asks.

  We are standing before the digger, stuck in a great hole near the lake, and for a disorienting moment, I wonder how we got here. Then I realize that as we sauntered around Chartwell and the grounds, my mind was elsewhere, in my memory of Bali.

  I am suddenly reminded of the Bali dove, to which I carefully tended in its wicker cage as we made the long voyage home. But the last time I recall seeing it was on the train. Or did I have it with me in the car from the station? Oh no, where have I left it?

  Without a word to Winston, Mary, and Moppet, I dart across the grounds to the circular drive at the front of the house. To my immense relief, the car still stands in the drive, as the staff is still working to unpack my trunks. Pulling open the passenger door, I exhale when I see the Bali dove sitting in its cage on the back seat.

  The thud of footsteps and the scrape of shoes on gravel follows me, and I turn to see Winston, Mary, and Moppet rushing down the drive. “Whatever is wrong, Clemmie?” Winston calls to me, panting.

  I hold the wicker cage up high like a trophy. “I thought I’d lost him.”

  Mary sprints over to the bird, which I lower to her eye level. The dove sings out a crou-crou, and she giggles.

  “He likes you,” I tell her.

  “He’s delightful, Mummy,” Mary says, and I watch Moppet’s gaze turn wary. She has every right to be hesitant about my shows of affection toward Mary, and yet I can’t help but resent it a little.

  Winston sidles up to the cage and peers inside. To my astonishment, the dove bows to him.

  “Now, there’s an animal that knows how to pay its respects,” he declares with a chuckle.

  As Winston, Mary, and Moppet walk back into the house, I follow them, whispering to the dove between the thin bars of its wicker cage, “I think you will help me write my happier ending.”

  IV

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  September 1, 1939

  London, England

  I look down over the carved wooden railing to the proceedings a level below on the House of Commons floor. I sit at the very front of the Strangers’ Gallery, intended for those watching the floor but who are neither members nor staff of the Parliament. I wonder about the peculiar name for this viewing place. How can I be a stranger to this proceeding when much of the four years since my time aboard the Rosaura has focused upon the momentous topics debated on the Commons floor beneath my feet?

  Winston clears his throat and puffs on his cigar. Even though he has been out of power and without a political position for years—ostracized and lambasted for his views, in fact—he appears quite at ease as the House Members look at him and wait respectfully for him to speak. I am the one brimming with nervous energy as we wait for the events on the floor to unfold. The act that Winston has been predicting now for years has finally come to pass—Hitler has mustered the forces he’s secretly assembled to conquer and lay waste to Poland. How different this reception is from the jeering and hissing he’s received from Prime Minister Chamberlain and his cronies for the past two years and from Prime Minister Baldwin and his cohorts for the years before that. They were determined to appease Hitler at all costs, even when Germany breached the Treaty of Versailles and blatantly demonstrated its aggression in Austria and Czechoslovakia thereafter. They did not want to hear the truth Winston laid bare for them.

  One would think I’d have grown used to the scoffing after so many years of my husband advocating unpopular positions—his immovable stance on keeping India under imperial rule as one example, and his support of King Edward VIII’s right to remain on the throne even though he planned to marry twice-divorced Wallis Simpson as another. But it has never gotten easier to watch my husband derided, particularly since I am in complete agreement with Winston’s views here today, about the evil of the Nazis and a call for rearmament. Ever since witnessing for myself the rise of Hitler’s Brownshirts on the fields outside Munich, the British position of appeasement has been incomprehensible to me. I could not understand how, in Chamberlain’s meeting with Hitler and Mussolini last September on the heels of the Anschluss, the prime minister could sacrifice western Czechoslovakia in exchange for promises by Hitler that he would make no further demands for territory—only to watch Hitler’s troops invade the rest of Czechoslovakia six months later and Mussolini’s armies take over Albania shortly thereafter. How had this not demonstrated to the English people the aggressiveness of Hitler’s intentions? How much more proof did they need?

  Considering the House of Commons floor now, it seems that they needed the tyrant to invade Poland—which Britain was honor-bound by treaty to defend—to finally see Winston’s point. Even as recently as last week, when the German-Soviet Nonaggression Pact was announced and plans were made to evacuate children from London, the government was not prepared to take action. What have these supposed leaders been doing for the past several years while Winston and I were gathering information about Hitler, besides turning a blind eye to Winston’s relentless efforts to get them to see the truth? After Mussolini invaded Abyssinia in October 1935 and then Hitler defied the Treaty of Versailles in March 1936, Chartwell became a hub for those who shared our perspective. Winston recruited Professor Frederick Lindemann from Oxford University to provide necessary data for his speeches and articles, and Ralph Wigram, a lovely young man whose despondency over these terrible times led to his untimely death nearly two years ago, provided intelligence to us at great risk to himself and his position in the Foreign Office. I even recruited my own cousin, the journalist Shiela Grant Duff, to send us important information from her post in Prague. We also hosted like-minded military officers, civil servants, journalists, and businessmen, all of whom phoned, arrived, and met with us at all hours as part of our effort to prove the Nazis’ plans to our reluctant countrymen. When the situation became too harried—or the stress of the children became too much or Winston’s depression over world affairs and his own powerlessness overwhelmed my own anxieties—I excused myself for a holiday or a restorative trip to the mountains in Zürs, Austria, at least until the Anschluss happened. I would do whatever necessary to avoid slipping into the nervous exhaustion of my earlier years. Once again, there was too much at stake.

  But no matter how often and how strongly Winston raised these threats in the House of Commons, England’s leaders had refused to listen. In the face of mounting evidence about Hitler’s intentions, they insisted on maintaining a steadfast “friendship” with the monstrous German. And this perspective was shared not only within the government but also among our so-called friends. Just this past January, while I was on a very different Rosaura voyage through the beautiful but impoverished West Indies, which incited my liberal sensitivities, Winston’s opinions were vigorously attacked by Lady Vera Broughton as warmongering, and many of the other guests quite vocally agreed with her stance. I couldn’t stand being on board with the myopic fools a moment longer, so after informing my host, Lord Moyne, I went ashore to Barbados and booked passage home on the SS Cuba the very next day.

  Would all this awful appeasement finally change now that Hitler thumbed his nose at England by blatantly invading Poland?

  * * *

  I turn my attention back to the chamber below. The murmurings grow louder, and the stares at Winston across the sea of green-cushioned chairs and benches grow more numerous. Still, as we had planned, he does not rise to speak. Winston will wait until Chamberlain gives his speech. The longer it takes and the more the restlessness grows, the clearer it will become that Chamberlain does not have what it takes to do the job. This is precisely our intention.

  I
wish I had Mary’s hand to squeeze as I wait. Curious, how connected I feel to my youngest child despite the fact that Moppet has long served in my parental stead. Perhaps it’s because of that. Could the concerted effort I make to have an annual skiing trip with her have contributed to this feeling? Despite the tense atmosphere around me in the House of Commons and tumult raging in my stomach, I smile to myself, thinking about the wide-grinned Mary and me skiing down the glistening Alpine slopes, five thousand feet above the clouds. Sometimes Jack and Goonie’s only daughter, Clarissa, or Judy, my cousin Venetia’s daughter, would join us—or even occasionally Diana and her husband, Duncan Sandys, or Sarah—but oftentimes it would be just the two of us, swooshing down the mountains or relaxing before the crackling fire in the cozy lodge.

  Whatever the reason, I feel a tether to Mary that I have never felt to poor Diana, Sarah, or Randolph, who all continue in their troubled states: the domestically inclined Diana, the only one seemingly marginally content, in her second marriage but with a delicate nature that requires rather constant attention that Duncan’s parliamentarian schedule does not allow; the aspiring actress Sarah, unhappily married to the Austrian-born actor Vic Oliver, with whom she’d eloped three years ago when Winston and I condemned a union with the peripatetic thespian eighteen years her senior; and the ever-troublesome Randolph, still a heavy drinker, whose entitled attitude has not been humbled by his three failed attempts at political office or his marginal, low-paid position as a journalist. I am reaping what I sowed.

  Finally, the prime minister stands and says that, despite his many efforts at peace and resolution of Germany’s actions, that the German chancellor announced an imminent attack on Poland. He then informs us that action is required in the circumstances, but doesn’t call for war. As Chamberlain continues, I hear a rumbling, and it’s growing louder. I recognize it from the many unpopular speeches Winston has given; it is the sound of discontent. They wonder, as do I, why Chamberlain isn’t calling for war. Why we are hearing more explanations and excuses?

  Chamberlain returns to his seat, and leaders of the two opposition parties, Labour and the Liberals, each give a speech in support of governmental action. Even after a special motion is put before the House of Commons to authorize five hundred million pounds to pay for war and the motion is voted for unanimously, war is still not declared by the prime minister. What is Chamberlain waiting for? I wonder.

  The sidelong glances in Winston’s direction mount. These garrulous politicians are used to my equally loquacious husband speaking his mind. They cannot believe he is still seated. But my husband stays quiet, puffing away on his cigar. This silence is calculated—and hard-won, knowing Winston—and meant to throw Chamberlain’s weakness into bold relief.

  We had decided that he should wait until the floor was very nearly closed for the night, no matter how late and no matter how hungry he might be, before leaving. But he should not linger until Chamberlain called an end to the session. He must walk just before the session ends—very slowly and very pointedly—to demonstrate the prime minister’s failing. I watch as, for once, Winston follows his instructions to the letter.

  * * *

  “By God, has the man no courage?”

  “After pandering to Hitler for so many years, he’s finding it hard to change tacks.”

  “Even after the attack on Poland? How can he be so cowardly?”

  I had been listening to this sort of talk for an hour. After the House of Commons session ended, members of Parliament Anthony Eden, Alfred Duff Cooper, Bob Boothby, Brendan Bracken, and Diana’s husband, Duncan, had assembled at our flat in Morpeth Mansions, a redbrick, two-floor space within sight of Parliament. Although we sometimes struggle to maintain the apartment on Winston’s income from his books and articles, Winston and I have continued to rent the three-bedroom London abode, complete with dining room, drawing room, kitchen, study, and secretary’s room, since 1930, and it has become a gathering place for like-minded folks over the years.

  The outrage of the men assembled today matches my own. Winston has been presenting evidence of Hitler’s aggression for years, and it had been one thing for Chamberlain to ignore it then, but how could he not declare war now? I am tired of all this talk.

  I rise from the table and glance out the window at the rain beating down on the spire of Westminster Cathedral. My anger simmers and then spills over. Turning toward the men, I say, “Chamberlain is a bloody fool, and he will take the coward’s path until he’s shamed into action. If we don’t hold his feet to the fire, he will retreat into the safety of Downing Street until the Nazis march down the streets of London and plow over the fields of England.” I give my husband an unwavering stare. “Winston, it is time for you to put pen to paper.”

  “Here, here,” Duncan says, and the other men echo him.

  Winston stands as well and walks to his small study. The men glance at each other, then get up and follow the trail of his cigar smoke. The clubby, wood-lined study overflows with the members of Parliament, and the smell of cigarettes, cigars, and sweat soon weighs thickly in the air.

  I stand at the doorway to the study, listening to the men rally around Winston. They offer suggestions for phrasing, but I know Winston will choose the most precise and powerful words. It is one of his greatest strengths. Yet he is used to my input, and I hear hesitation in his tone. When I hear him speak eloquently of the injury done to the British people, I walk through the circle of men and say, “That’s fitting, Winston.”

  As he finalizes the letter, the men vie for the honor of delivering it to Downing Street personally. Unable to settle on one of their number, they determine that they will all take the short journey from Morpeth Mansions to the prime minister’s residence and office. All except Winston, who begs off, claiming that he wants them to share the recognition. But I know he’s been simply too drained.

  When the door closes, I take Winston by the hand and lead him over to the large window overlooking the street below. A web of black umbrellas covers the men as they stride toward Downing Street in the pelting rain. A clap of thunder does not send even a ripple of hesitation through the ranks; they proceed without a pause.

  When I look into Winston’s eyes, I see a familiar but long-unseen spark. This is not only the beginning of another war but the beginning of Winston’s resurgence, I think, just when he’d begun to believe that his days of leadership were behind him. And I begin to consider what role I will play.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  September 3, 1939

  London, England

  We hover anxiously around the wireless. After receiving Winston’s letter, Chamberlain issued an ultimatum to Germany, demanding that it cease its attack on Poland within two hours. We’d received word from a loyal source close to the prime minister that Hitler sent no such commitment, and as such, Chamberlain would be making a radio address. But after watching the clock tick for the past twenty minutes, we had still heard nothing from Downing Street.

  “Clemmie.” Winston interrupts my anxious reverie with a speech he’s drafting in anticipation of Chamberlain’s announcement. He feels certain that the prime minister will soon capitulate. We go back and forth on the appropriate phraseology, searching for the most powerful, until we settle on the right verbiage.

  “Good, good. I’ll make that change.”

  The black wireless crackles with life. We lean into it, as if we could hasten Chamberlain’s words with our proximity. “Do you think he’ll finally declare war?” I ask.

  “After my letter, how could he not?” Winston says.

  Chamberlain’s clipped, aristocratic voice transmits clearly over the wireless. We hold our breaths until we hear the words for which we’ve been waiting: England is at war.

  “Chamberlain finally did it,” I say with an exhale of relief. I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding my breath.

  “Nearly too late. If he’d listened t
o me a year ago, it might not have come to this. Although it gives me no pleasure to be right in this particular instance.” Winston hoists himself out of his chair. “Shall we watch London prepare herself for war, Clemmie? From the terrace?”

  Stepping over puddles of rainwater, I follow him wordlessly up the stairs to the terrace on the roof above our fifth- and sixth-floor apartment, a space to which only we have access through a door close to the secretary’s room. After the thunderous rain last evening, the day is fine and unexpectedly bright. I shade my eyes to gaze out over the London cityscape of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, wondering what Winston expects to see up here. With the azure sky and the blinding sunlight making vivid the colors of the city, it seems an unlikely day for war. To my astonishment, I see three blimps float up and over the rooftops and church steeples of the city like low-hanging clouds.

  “So soon?” I ask, my heart racing at this evidence of war.

  “We are at war, Clemmie.” He sounds surprised by my reaction. “And we are jumping in midstream. Its battles will often take place in the air. We must be prepared, and we must begin now.” He says this matter-of-factly, but to me, the leap from declaration to action seems too short. I feel vulnerable and exposed and yet oddly thrilled. Once again, as we had in the Great War, Winston and I stand on the brink of history.

  Suddenly, a deafening wail fills the air, and I automatically cover my ears with my hands. “What in the blazes is that?” I yell.

  “I believe it’s a first air-raid siren,” he yells back.

  He seems fixated on the skyline, so I tug on his arm. “It’s blaring for a reason, Pug. Let’s get a move on.” He is immovable. Threading my arm through his, I pull him toward the stairs. “You’re not going to let your Cat stand in harm’s way, are you?”

  The reference to my well-being wakens Winston’s sense of duty, and he begins moving downstairs. As we pass our apartment door, I nip in for a moment, bringing out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “For medicinal comfort,” I say, waving it toward him. I don’t know how long we’ll be forced to stay in the newly erected air-raid shelter on the street, and I know Winston will fare better with a brandy to pass the time. Should I change my clothes? I wonder if my pale-blue gabardine dress is suitable for a shelter. Silly, I think, to be worrying about attire at a time like this.