Churchill's Hour

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Winston, please. I know you’re upset about the loss of so many lives on the Hood—we all are. It was tragic.’

  Churchill was pointing his knife belligerently. ‘Tragic, indeed. But the lives we lost this morning were no more than those we lose in a single night of bombing in our towns and cities. Tens of thousands of innocent civilians are being murdered in their own homes, and your countrymen refuse to lift a finger to restrain the brutal arm of the aggressors.’ He had grown breathless with the force of his emotion. ‘Are we to believe, then, that in this fight for freedom, one American life is to be valued more highly than any number of Englishmen?’

  ‘My own life I would gladly give, Winston. You know that. You also know that I cannot speak for others.’

  ‘No, they speak for themselves. Hess arrives in this country spouting his humbug about peace, and what happens in America? Why, they make a grab for their money and run! Wall Street tumbles. Your investors take to the hills because they fear that the slaughter in Europe might stop and they’ll lose their profits.’

  ‘I agree with you, Winston. Freedom has its excesses, and the response of Wall Street was a disgrace. It so often is. But it’s partly your fault. You’ve said so very little about why Hess flew here. It’s scarcely surprising that rumours flourish. How can you expect Americans to jump into a war if they think there’s a chance it might be about to end?’

  ‘But the war will not come to an end until they do jump in!’ Churchill snapped, pounding the table in frustration and causing the cutlery to jump. ‘When will your countrymen realize that? Without your fighting men, this war will go on and on until there is nothing left to fight for. Every freedom will have been torn down and the whole of our civilization will lie rotting at our feet.’

  He thrust himself back in his chair, breathing like a wounded bull. Winant thought he could see fear flecking his eye; he had never known that in Churchill. And Winant himself was a little afraid, of what more might still be said. Their friendship was on the brink.

  Then Sawyers was at the old man’s side, deliberately distracting, holding open a box of cigars.

  ‘Thought you might like one of these, zur,’ he said, thrusting the box almost insistently at Churchill. ‘The ones from Cuba.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Sawyers? Are you trying to kill me?’

  ‘They’re good ‘uns. Been checked.’

  ‘By the security services?’

  ‘No. By me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Well, zur, the security gentlemen set up a committee, like. To decide what to do about your cigars. Had two meetings, they have, but they still can’t make up minds how best to test ‘em.’

  ‘So you…?’

  ‘That’s right. Last night. Tested ‘em meself.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By fire, o’ course. How else?’

  Churchill stared ferociously at his valet, then into the box while his guests waited for another outburst. But suddenly Sarah was giggling, and the others joined in. Slowly the old man’s shoulders relaxed and he reached for a cigar.

  ‘Well, I dare say they can stand a little more testing, Sawyers. And give one to the Ambassador.’ It was about as close as Churchill was capable of coming to an apology.

  Still he was restless, couldn’t settle. After dinner, they had all gathered in the Long Gallery to watch a new American film, Citizen Kane, but the old man seemed distracted and he walked out halfway through. Even after Sawyers had put him to bed, he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes the darkness fell upon him and he imagined he was drowning. Like the men on the Hood.

  He lay there, sleepless, motionless, tears dropping onto his pillow.

  It was a little while after he had turned out his light that he heard noises from down the corridor. His bedroom was off the gallery that ran behind the Great Hall; it was also where most of the guest bedrooms were located. Normally Churchill would have been exasperated at a disturbance so late at night, but he suspected it might be Winant, restless, like him. Churchill knew he had been foul to a man whom he had come to regard as a friend. Perhaps, he decided, he should settle the matter, with a little grace, and allow them both to rest.

  He was at the door of his bedroom when the noises beyond became more distinct. A door had been opened, then closed. Now he could hear cautious footsteps in the hallway, followed by the scrape of a different door opening and, very gently, being pulled to.

  A thousand suppositions crossed his mind. They all came to one conclusion. He had been right, it was Winant. He suspected the American was now in Sarah’s room, beside her, in the place of her husband, as he had been during dinner and throughout much of the day. Churchill was no great moralist—he couldn’t be and still respect the memory of his wayward mother—yet what he had heard disturbed him profoundly. He had watched his mother trying to swamp her unhappiness in repeated infidelities; he knew that it rarely worked. And now Sarah. As he stood in the darkness, for the moment all his other cares were pushed aside in sorrow for his daughter.

  Then he heard another sound. It was indistinct, but somehow surreptitious. Very slowly, he opened his door just enough to be able to peer into the hallway.

  There, framed against a distant window, he saw the silhouette of Héloise creeping back up the stairs.

  When Sawyers came in the following morning, the old man was sitting up in bed, wrapped in his silk pyjamas, looking like a freshly scrubbed pig.

  ‘Sawyers,’ Churchill began, examining the other man carefully through the smoke of the first cigar of the day, ‘you know most things that are going on around here, don’t you?’

  ‘What sort o’ things?’

  ‘I’m not certain, of course, but I get the impression,’ Churchill continued, in a manner that was uncharacteristically opaque, ‘that one of our guests is—how can I put this?—growing a little too close to my own family.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Come on, man! Help me out here.’

  ‘Where is here, exactly?’

  ‘In bed. That’s what I mean. In bloody bed. Don’t be so obtuse. Did all of our guests spend the night in their own beds? Or was one of them…resting elsewhere?’

  The servant ignored him, busying himself instead with the laying out of Churchill’s clothes.

  ‘Sawyers?’

  The servant placed a pair of freshly pressed trousers on a clothes stand, taking meticulous care to preserve the creases as if it were a job that might occupy him for an entire day. Only then did he turn towards the bed.

  ‘Mr Churchill. They’re your family. And I’m not any sort o’ domestic Gestapo.’

  ‘I could have you shot for insubordination.’

  ‘And you could get yer own breakfast, zur. But I don’t think that’s likely, do you?’

  ‘You can be bloody rude.’

  ‘I do me best.’

  Churchill wondered whether to lose his temper, but there was no point, not with this extraordinary man. He was so much more than a servant; he was counsellor, a guide, a shield and, on occasions, his judge. In any event, his reaction had already told Churchill all he wanted to know. Sawyers was never insolent without a reason, so there was a reason.

  ‘Then let me ask you something that is your business. The French girl. Mrs Landemare’s kin. What do we know about her?’

  Suddenly the audacity was gone, like a jacket slipped from his shoulder. This was indisputably his territory. ‘Can I ask why yer wanting to know?’

  Churchill drew on his cigar. ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Very well. She does her job, does as she’s told. Quiet sort o’ thing. Learns quick. From Mer-sails—think I told yer that. A naval family. Parents long dead, I’m sure o’ that, but she’s got an older brother. Think he helped bring her up, like, after parents died.’

  ‘Problems?’

  He shook his head. ‘Always ready to help, she is. Don’t think she’s ever complained, no’ the once.’

  ‘Then we must be thankful fo
r such small mercies. But keep an eye on her, will you?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But if you see anything, be sure to tell no one but me.’

  SEVEN

  The saga of the sinking ships had yet to reach its conclusion. The battle in the Demark Strait had not been entirely one-sided. The Hood’s sister ship, the Prince of Wales, had managed to hit the Bismarck with three shells—a seemingly miserable consolation for the loss of an entire battleship. But two of the shells had caused a serious fuel leak, enough to force the Bismarck’s captain to reconsider his plans. Instead of rushing towards the hunting grounds of the Atlantic, he turned the ship and headed for repairs towards occupied France, where she would soon come under the protective screen of U-boats and the Luftwaffe’s fighters.

  The British pursued her, launching Swordfish biplanes armed with torpedoes. Yet the Atlantic is vast, the conditions were inclement, and they had great difficulty finding her. When at last the outline of the Bismarck appeared through the low cloud and swirling storms, the British planes went in to attack, only for their torpedoes to fail. They had been fitted with the wrong type of detonators. Yet in one of those cruel ironies with which war is littered, it turned out to be a miracle of deliverance, for it was later discovered that the Swordfish had found not the Bismarck but the Sheffield. The British had been trying to blow up one of their own ships.

  They changed the detonators and tried again. This time a single torpedo found its target, striking the German ship in its stern. There was no danger of the Bismarck sinking from the blow, but when the confusion of the explosion had receded it was discovered that one of her rudders had jammed. All attempts to loosen it failed. So, as her pursuers closed in, the newest and most powerful ship in the German Navy was left sailing round in circles. It could lead to only one conclusion.

  As the pale light of dawn began to break, every eye on the Bismarck turned to the horizon. Some men touched crucifixes or twisted wedding bands, others stared at photographs of children and loved ones, or reread letters from those they had left behind. Many prayed quietly at their battle stations, some joked, others said nothing at all. Every man had his own way of waiting to die.

  All this and much more was on Churchill’s mind when he rose to address Members of Parliament, sitting in their temporary home of Church House. Churchill did not like this place. It was strange, alien, far too modern. The seating was arranged in a circle, and he felt surrounded. He had come to deliver more bad news. The situation in Crete, where the British had retreated after the German occupation of Greece, was looking ever more grave. And the Battle of the Denmark Strait was still a disaster, no matter how nobly he tried to wrap it up. Although they had pursued and bombed the Bismarck, still she would not sink. He told them that even as he spoke, British ships were firing on the Bismarck, but the shells seemed to be having no effect, so they were going to try torpedoes. She was surrounded, crippled, she would not escape, he told them, but they grew restless. There was something innately unsporting in the tale. The stag must die, but many who listened wished desperately that it could be put out of its misery rather than hear that its legs were being broken one by one.

  He moved on, to Northern Ireland. More difficult news. He announced that there was to be no conscription in the province, it was to be treated differently from the rest of the country. They all knew this was a grievous personal defeat for Churchill, who had argued that this should not be, that the province was not different and therefore could not be treated differently, but even he had not been able to carry the day. The Americans had objected, most vociferously. Roosevelt himself had intervened. He would not have Irish Catholics being conscripted to fight for Britain any more than he would have Americans. It left Churchill furious, but helpless. Another battle lost. It left a sour taste.

  As he was talking, he became aware of a whispered but animated discussion taking place in the official gallery. A folded piece of paper was being handed down to one of the Members, who passed it along the line, hand to hand, leaving a trail of agitation in its wake. It was like watching a torpedo weaving its way towards him. Then the note was thrust into his hand, which trembled very slightly. He took a moment to glance at it.

  ‘I do not know whether I might venture, with great respect, to intervene for one moment, Mr Speaker,’ he announced, folding the paper in two. He looked at the expectant faces around him, holding them, playing with them a little. ‘I have just received news…that the Bismarck is sunk!’

  A wave of jubilation burst forth across the men around him.

  The Bismarck was gone, taking almost every member of its crew with it, more than two thousand men, who now lay alongside those from the Hood.

  The cheering continued. For a while, the news had wiped away the doubts and restlessness, but Churchill knew they would soon be back. Not even he could sail around in circles forever.

  Pamela and Harriman stood on the dockside wrapped up against a cold wind, watching as the ships were unloaded. The first Lend-Lease convoy had arrived, laden with food.

  ‘There, in those crates. Our secret weapon.’ The American pointed as a crane lowered the first cargo onto the dockside.

  ‘Am I allowed to know what it is?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s called Spam.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s powerful stuff. Comes in cans. May even take the place of rissoles one day.’

  ‘You pig!’

  ‘And the other boats are filled with American delicacies like powdered egg and soya flour.’

  ‘You dragged me all the way here to show me boats full of shrivelled eggs and Spam?’ Laughter trickled in between her words and she grabbed his sleeve, but he stared straight ahead, unbending, leaning into the wind.

  ‘No. I brought you here to tell you we have to stop this.’

  Her good humour died and she felt the wind between them. ‘We should never have started again.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, but it was fun.’ She squeezed his arm tightly. They stood silently for a moment, pretending to be looking at the activity on the docks.

  ‘Do you think Winston knows?’ Harriman asked eventually.

  ‘Of course not. Why do you think that?’

  ‘He’s asked me to go to the Middle East.’

  ‘Why? When?’

  ‘To see what’s needed for the battle in the desert. He wants me to go straight away.’

  A long, sad pause.

  ‘And he’s written to Randolph. Wants him to take care of me while I’m there. Show me around.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it? That’s why I wondered if he knew.’

  ‘No, Papa isn’t cruel. Fact is, he’s not very good at dealing with that sort of thing. He would never interfere.’ Silence. ‘So…what do we do?’

  ‘Say goodbye, I guess.’

  ‘War is so beastly, Averell.’

  ‘It makes. It breaks.’

  ‘How long…?’

  ‘Weeks. Maybe a couple of months.’

  The first hint of tears.

  ‘Pamela, when I get back…’

  ‘You mustn’t see me, not at all. You won’t see me.’

  ‘Not sure I can accept that.’

  ‘You’ll have to. I won’t be around any more.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’m leaving London, too. I can’t afford to stay, not at the Dorchester. You know, Randy’s gambling debts…’

  He was still staring straight ahead, his features stiff, frozen in the wind. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘No idea. To the country. Somewhere very cheap.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘As you said, war makes, war breaks.’

  ‘Look, Pam…’ At last he turned to look at her. The wind had caused tears to collect at the corner of his own eyes. ‘I like you so very much. You’re—hell, you’re everything I’m not. I’m a different person with you, a better person. I wish there was some way we could j
ust stick with today and forget about tomorrow, but…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You mean a very great deal to me. I can’t have you simply walking out of my life. Anyhow, I’d like to help. Look, let me take care of your bill at the Dorchester. It would be so easy, just put it onto my tab. No one need ever know. You just carry on as you are.’

  ‘No, Averell. That’s so sweet but I couldn’t.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘Then what I mean is I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Shouldn’t? As in—you shouldn’t have let me into your bed again the other night. Do you regret that?’

  ‘Of course not, silly goat. It was wonderful.’ She sighed, a long, strained sound that carried memories of the nights they had stolen from the world.

  ‘Then let me do this for you. Please. For Winston. He needs to have you nearby, not stuck away in the country.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘It’s almost your duty,’ he persisted. ‘Anyway, it’s either that or powdered egg.’

  ‘For Winston, then.’

  ‘To hell with June,’ Churchill had announced. He was desperately tired. Nothing worked, not even the weather. It had been the longest and dreariest spring in memory, so he had declared his intention of spending a few days recuperating in his own country home at Chartwell. Clemmie and Pamela went with him.

  The main house overlooking the sweeping vale of Kent was closed for the duration, with most of its rooms cocooned in white shrouds, so they had settled in a cottage lower down the hill, one of those he had built with his own hands. He hadn’t spoken much, content to wander around the grounds on his own, calling to the black swans and ducks, searching for the hiding places of the butterflies, encouraging the yellow cat, who seemed to have forgotten all about him. Eventually Pamela went searching for him. She found him sitting on the bench by the goldfish pond, wrapped in an old overcoat he used for bricklaying, dribbling biscuit crumbs to the goldfish. The yellow cat was staring at him suspiciously from a tuft of reeds.