Churchill's Hour

by Michael Dobbs

  He produced a cigar from his pocket and began to prepare it. Pamela reached across. ‘Let me,’ she offered. He smiled in appreciation. She had a rare talent for taking care of an old man’s comforts.

  ‘Do you like Chartwell, Pamela?’

  ‘I love your home, Papa,’ she replied with enthusiasm. It was a lie, gently offered, so as not to upset him. In truth she found the house cumbersome, its details complicated and overworked. Better to have bulldozed and started from scratch.

  ‘It was my enduring sorrow that my mother never saw Chartwell,’ he said. ‘But it will be yours one day. Yours and Randolph’s.’

  For the first time she realized she had never, not even for a moment, contemplated the prospect of a blissful old age sitting around the fire with Randolph, not at Chartwell nor anywhere else. Their marriage had been so impetuous, yet, as Averell had said, war makes, war breaks, and somehow the war would sort it out. Otherwise…bulldoze and start again from scratch, perhaps.

  She sought to move the conversation towards firmer territory. ‘Your mother, Papa, she…’

  ‘Died a little while before I first saw the house. She would have found pleasure, I think, sitting on the lawn beneath a parasol, looking out over the lakes with one of Mrs Landemare’s cakes crumbling in her hand. Ah, but perhaps it was never more than a dream. She was always so busy, had so little time…’

  ‘Oh, Papa,’ she sighed, nestling beside him and tracing her finger across his brow, trying to wipe away the creases of concern. He closed his eyes like a small boy. The cat moved closer, cautiously, then, much to Churchill’s delight, sprang onto his lap.

  ‘You know, I never had much of a family,’ he said. ‘We seemed always to be on the move from one house to the next, from one crisis to another, my father absent more than he was at home, my mother…Oh, my darling mother. She used to shine for me like the evening star, so brilliantly, but at a great distance. That’s why I built this place, built so much of Chartwell with my own hands. As a proper home. For our family.’ At last he looked at her, his pale blue eyes almost beseeching. ‘When this bloody war is done with, shall we go back to being the same?’

  She held his hand, but said nothing.

  ‘Of course not,’ he declared softly. ‘Nothing will ever be the same. Not us. Not England. Nothing lasts for ever.’

  She wondered whether he knew, was making a point. ‘We can never live in the past, Papa.’

  ‘No, of course not. But when I try to peer into the future, I see nothing but mists of doubt. I weep for what is to come.’ He held her hand as if he never wanted to let go.

  ‘Papa, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I think Sarah is having an affair with Gil Winant.’

  It took a moment for his words to strike home. Pinpricks of alarm began to spread from her stomach across her chest.

  ‘What do you feel about that, Papa?’ she asked, not looking up, pretending to focus on stroking the cat, shivering inside.

  ‘How is a father supposed to feel? I want nothing more than her happiness, but…’ The cat was now rubbing her face up against his sleeve. With great tenderness he began to wipe her eyes with the corners of his handkerchief. A relationship reborn. ‘I think perhaps I should send Sarah away,’ he continued.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I cannot let it continue, not under my own roof. They will say she is wanton and wicked.’

  ‘Oh, Papa,’ she said scornfully, ‘what century are we living in? Even in your mother’s day such matters were little more than organized deceits, and I don’t seem to remember you talking about her in that way.’

  He turned on her, as though his cheeks had been slapped.

  ‘You never knew her!’ His tone was sharp.

  ‘I know that men were important to her—in fact, the focus of her life. Not just one man but many. And under the family roof.’

  Bewilderment began to flood his eyes. No one had ever dared talk like that about his mother, a woman three times married and courted many times more, but throughout it all she had still been his mother, the distant, elusive, untouchable evening star that had shone brilliantly yet so intermittently upon his early life. He had been thirteen when he came down to breakfast to find her sharing the table with a stranger, and a couple of years older before he had begun to understand what it implied. Now he choked on the memories. He stiffened. The cat scurried away in alarm.

  ‘You have no right to judge my mother!’

  ‘I don’t. If I had known her I think I would have loved your mother as much as anyone could. But I love Sarah, too.’

  ‘No more than I!’

  ‘Then why punish her, send her away?’

  ‘How can a father rest, knowing what is going on?’

  ‘But you don’t suggest sending Gil away. You could, you know, with a single word. Get him recalled, just like that.’ She snapped her fingers.

  ‘Because…’

  ‘Because, Papa, he is a man. Because he is too valuable to you. And because you love the idea of having an important American like him under your thumb. Isn’t that it? Do I smell just the faintest whiff of double standards here?’

  She had to push the matter to its limit; it was her own funeral they were discussing.

  ‘That is ridiculous—’

  ‘Then tell me, Papa. One simple question. What would your mother have done?’

  He sat panting for breath as, deep inside him, war was waged.

  ‘What will you have me be, a bishop or a bloody Borgia? I don’t know what to do, Pamela. Does that make you feel better? All I know is that it is a circumstance that will end up breaking my heart. But why, Pamela, why do you set about me so?’

  ‘Because, Papa,’ she whispered, ‘whatever you decide to do with Gil and Sarah, you will have to do with Averell. And with me.’

  The husband had been the ghost at all their feasts, and now he was there, made flesh, his hand outstretched in greeting.

  ‘Mr Harriman.’

  ‘Please—call me Averell.’

  They were standing beneath the awning of Shepheard’s Hotel, where Randolph stayed when he was in Cairo. The heat was searing. Every piece of brickwork radiated heat and even the palm trees seemed to wilt. The air was full of flies and dust, and the pavements wriggled with dirty boys. From the road came the noise and stench of complaining donkeys.

  Randolph was sweating. Harriman had seen photographs of him at Chequers, but they were clearly several years old, for they had shown a young face that burned with energy and, yes, even beauty. But the man before him was greying, overweight and with an expression that had become glazed with indulgence. The American reached out, taking the proffered hand warily. He searched Randolph’s eyes for any trace of animosity or understanding, but found only a puddle of gin.

  ‘My father speaks very highly of you, Averell. Says I should take care of you. Be a pleasure. Come inside to the bar; I’d rather be buggered than stand outside any longer in this heat.’

  And so they started, the husband and the lover…

  Soon they were occupying Randolph’s favourite corner in the bar, where the breeze and the gin were at their most cooling. Harriman had been told that the younger Churchill was a lieutenant, but he wore the uniform of a major and carried the air of feudal chieftain. As they sat, the entire Egyptian world seemed to pass by his table, and he greeted them variously with cries of welcome, curses or complete indifference.

  The man was not a fool, Harriman quickly came to realize that. But he was the son of perhaps the most famous man in the world, which meant that his life would never be his own. Above all, he was not allowed to go to war. Harriman doubted if the Prime Minister himself had forbidden it, but he didn’t need to, the System would take care of that for him. So while Randolph had trained to be a commando and was as eager as his father had ever been to prove himself, he hadn’t seen a single day of combat. Almost all his friends and colleagues had been to war, many of them thrown into the disastrous campaign to save Crete, but while th
ey had fought and some very close to him had already died, Randolph ended up in the corner of this fetid colonial hotel having to do battle with nothing more threatening than flies and his bar bills.

  In place of medals, he wore his frustrations. Every fighting man who passed the table had his arm grabbed, every senior officer had his ear bent—and every attractive woman had her body silently propositioned. None of them seemed to mind too much; it was that sort of place and, after all, it was that sort of world. As for the rest of humanity that passed by, they provided an audience for Randolph’s tireless stream of complaints about how the war in the Middle East was being run and largely lost.

  An officer in the uniform of the Scots Guards approached with a companion on his arm and, spotting Randolph, tried too late to avoid eye contact.

  ‘Averell, may I introduce Colonel John Marriott?’ Randolph said.

  ‘Churchill,’ the senior officer muttered, not struggling to hide the impression of impatience. ‘And Mr Harriman. I’ve heard of you. Welcome.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce my wife. Momo, say hello to Mr Harriman.’

  An elegant arm with exceptionally long red fingernails was extended. ‘Hello, Mr Harriman.’ Her voice was American, her jewellery expensive and her hand lingered just a fraction too long in his.

  ‘But you’ll excuse us,’ her husband added. ‘Must be on our way. A war to fight,’ he said, casting a caustic eye in the direction of Randolph.

  As the couple withdrew, Harriman couldn’t help but notice the swing of her hips. He assumed it was intentional. This was not a subtle city. It was a place where the perfume was too heavy, the servants too ingratiating, the streets too loud, the liquor too cheap, with everything corrupted by its imperial idleness and military intrigues. Cairo gave the impression that nothing would last and everything was on offer, a bit like a New York fire sale.

  Over lunch in the magnificent dining room, Randolph poured out more of his frustrations about the incompetence with which the war was being run, and Harriman took careful note. After all, what with his father and his friends, Churchill was probably the best-informed man in Cairo. They ate magnificently while Randolph gossiped. And when the bill was presented, they indulged in a squabble about who was to pay. Randolph was an habitual bill-grabber—he would always dine expensively, in company, and reach for the bill, regardless of the fact that he was broke. Pamela had complained of that. But Harriman had longer arms; his fingers—and his guilt—got there first.

  ‘Averell,’ Randolph declared, conceding defeat, ‘you are a fully paid-up, first-class swine. I think we shall become great friends.’

  Harriman blanched. Then the question he had been dreading most, and for which in spite of repeated practice he still had not properly prepared.

  ‘Tell me, when you were in London, did you see anything of that wife of mine…?’

  A thousand miles away, the wind continued to blow achingly cold. Churchill abandoned his stay at Chartwell and decided to return early to London. His car was the last to leave; when he clambered into the back seat, he found Pamela already there. He said not a word, wrapped himself in a car rug and stared out of the window.

  Their convoy hurried past the base at Biggin Hill. The airfield was quieter than it had been for many months. The bombing raid that had gutted the House of Commons had proved to be a final spasm of destruction, at least for the moment. But it was only a matter of time before they would be back.

  The bell on the police car ahead of them rang out as it passed around the wrong side of a traffic island and pushed its way through red traffic lights. Churchill enjoyed being driven fast. Usually he thrilled to its sense of speed, of power—his power. But today his mood was sombre and distracted. He remained silent. Pamela assumed it was her fault.

  But Churchill could never tolerate silence for long. Eventually he began to mutter, still staring out of the window. ‘That wretched man Hess. Tried to kill himself.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Rushed past the guard and threw himself over the banisters. Know how he feels.’

  ‘Oh, Papa.’

  ‘But he’s going to be all right. Just a broken leg. Ridiculous fellow. Couldn’t even get that right.’

  ‘Won’t there be questions? What will you say about it?’

  ‘Why, nothing, I suppose. Ever since he arrived people have been demanding that I say something about the man, but in all honesty I have no idea what to say. Sometimes it seems better just to shut up.’

  And that was it. He slumped back into his seat. He still had not looked at her. That was why she had stolen into his car, in order to break through the silence that had fallen upon him ever since she had made her confession. His silences were corrosive; she couldn’t allow it to continue. That gave her the idea.

  ‘I think what you have done about Hess is exactly right,’ she began again.

  ‘But I have done nothing. That satisfies no one. So the entire world resorts to rumour and speculation. Silly minds do so hate a vacuum.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ he asked, at last turning to look at her.

  ‘Silence can be a weapon.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You remember you once told me that a few years ago Mama went on a sea voyage to India for several months. You knew she had become friendly with one of the other guests on board, a single man. You told me how every day you waited for the postman to arrive in order to ransack the letters, hoping to find one from her. And every day that you had none, you died a little.’

  ‘I never stopped loving her. I never lost faith,’ he insisted, pounding his chest and looking at her in accusation.

  ‘If only I had married a man like you, Papa,’ she said coolly, refusing to match his emotion. He continued to stare at her with suspicion.

  ‘But you know how it hurt, Papa,’ she continued, moving him on. ‘You know the suspicions that passed across your mind.’

  ‘Like crows tearing at my carcass.’

  ‘So what must they be thinking in Germany? Whether Hess came with Hitler’s blessing or not doesn’t really matter—but surely they were expecting something, even if only an outburst or an accusation. Yet they have nothing. And you remember what that was like.’

  ‘Every day that went by without hearing from her, I felt the most terrible sense of loss. My suspicions grew, dark thoughts formed in my mind. Waiting for the postman and his letters became an obsession.’

  ‘Every day since Hess arrived here, Berlin must have been growing more anxious about what has happened—and what is going to happen.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What is going to happen?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It seems to me that’s up to you. You control what Hess says, and when he says it, Papa. So you can control what Hitler thinks. You are rather like the postman.’

  He slumped back into his seat and was staring out of the window again, but lost this time in thought rather than animosity.

  ‘So what will you do, Papa?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘I’m not yet sure—except to keep that bloody man Hitler guessing. Stick a few pins in his rump. Start by sending a Minister along to see Hess, perhaps, but say nothing about what they discuss. Make it seem like…’ He suddenly grew awkward.

  ‘A lovers’ tryst?’

  ‘That’ll do for a start,’ he said roughly, but would say no more.

  He was still angry and uncomfortable with her, but she took comfort from the fact that least they were travelling in the same direction once again.

  Randolph proved to be an enthusiastic host. For several days he took Harriman on a tour of military installations, making introductions, pointing out weaknesses, proposing remedies, and once the heat of the day had subsided he introduced the American to the lighter side of Cairo’s nightlife—first at the Mohamed Ali Club, where the more refined womenfolk waited to find escorts, and later at the Kit Kat Club and Madame Badia’s, where the women
seemed altogether less fussy. All the while Harriman made careful notes. Then one evening they sailed up the Nile on a dhow, and beneath the stars Randolph began to speak of Pamela. He spoke very fondly. He had no idea. So Harriman got drunk. He couldn’t decide whether the other man’s ignorance was because Pamela was so skilled at subterfuge, or because he was the sort of Englishman who would always underestimate a woman. In either case, it was uncomfortable territory, so he pursued Randolph into a state of inebriation until he had little recollection of what was being said and none of how he made it back to the British Embassy, where he was staying. He woke up the next morning feeling dreadful. He got up late, very late, which was most unlike him. Breakfast almost became lunch, and as soon as he had finished it he hurried around to Shepheard’s Hotel.

  He thought he would have to wake Randolph. They could talk while he was dressing, make up for time already lost that morning. Harriman knocked quietly at the door of Randolph’s room, and entered.

  Judging by the number of sleeping bags that lay stretched out on the backs of chairs or thrown casually into corners, this was a room accustomed to a fair amount of passing military traffic. Shared room, shared costs. Not the sort of thing Harriman was used to. The fan was spinning noisily, which is perhaps why Randolph hadn’t heard the knock at the door, or he simply didn’t care, for he was lying naked on his bed. Sitting on top of him was a woman with long, red fingernails. It was Momo Marriott, the wife of the colonel in the Scots Guards. A bead of sweat was trickling down her backbone. She didn’t appear to mind the intrusion, or it might have been that she was simply too focused on other things to notice. Randolph, too, seemed unfazed.

  ‘Sorry, old chap,’ he spluttered, gasping for each breath. ‘Bit busy at the moment. See you in the bar in ten?’

  Harriman fled. He hadn’t felt so discomfited and out of place since—well, since the previous night, when Randolph had begun gushing about Pamela. But by the time he reached the bar his mood had changed. Throughout his life he had never found comfort in the idea of making another man a cuckold. Now, in Randolph’s case, it didn’t matter a damn.