Although there was a great sense of discontent – rationing remained in force and the country was tired and dispirited – at first the results were too close to call, and it was thought that the Labour Party might have again held on with a narrow majority. But as the returns from the provinces began coming in it was clear the Conservatives were making steady gains, and at 5.30 in the evening Attlee conceded defeat.
At the age of almost seventy-seven Winston became the second-oldest Prime Minister in the country’s history, outstripped only by William Gladstone during Lord Randolph’s time, who led his last government in 1892.
25
1952–5
A New Era
Three years before his father became Prime Minister for the second time, Randolph had remarried. His wife was June Osborne, daughter of Colonel Rex Osborne DSO MC. She was fair, fragile and a typical English beauty with the same colouring as Clementine. At twenty-six June was Randolph’s junior by eleven years, and although never previously married she had been intimately involved with several literary figures.* After Randolph had accepted that Laura was never going to marry him he was a lonely man, desperate for a ménage of his own. So he went looking for a wife, just as he had before the war when he met Pam.
Although more mature than Pam had been, June was far less able to cope with Randolph’s boisterous nature. She was a vulnerable and needy girl–woman, who evidently believed she saw in Randolph a strong male figure who would provide her with some stability. Randolph never ceased to love Laura, but he thought he could make marriage to June work. His friends looked on anxiously throughout an exceptionally stormy three-month courtship, during which at one point June, high on Benzedrine and wine (a mixture unwittingly administered by Randolph, who thought he was helping her over a cold), threatened to commit suicide and rushed off towards the Thames. When Randolph caught up with her on the Embankment, she attacked him, then called the police and accused him of indecent assault. They managed to recover from this incident, Randolph taking all the blame. At his request, Evelyn Waugh – who alternately loved and loathed Randolph (he claimed that once a year they broke off relations for ever) – wrote to June to tell her that he had known Randolph since before she was born ‘and have always felt that he had a unique capacity for happiness, which one way and another has never been fully developed. I am sure you will be able to do this for him.’ He finished with a perceptive observation: ‘He is essentially a domestic and home-loving character who has never had a home.’1
Clementine may have had some sympathy with this view. She did not actually hate her son but she was never able to cope with his rude, unruly and argumentative nature, and there were times when she disliked his behaviour very much. She could not bear to be around him. A good deal of what his mother termed ‘heated argument’ Randolph would have dismissed as mere ‘discussion’: Winston could always tolerate a degree of this, although he liked it less as he grew older and his energy diminished. But Clementine’s only defence was to see as little of Randolph as possible, and she often retired to the peace of her own room when her son visited. Randolph had been ordered to leave the house countless times after tempestuous scenes, and banned from ever returning on one or two occasions. He had himself stormed out several times, swearing never to return. He always did return, of course; at bottom, both parents still loved this difficult child.
It was on Randolph’s behalf that Clementine wrote to Winston, who was staying with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor at Château de la Croë, Cap d’Antibes. Winston and Clementine had gone there together to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary, but Clementine had returned home early leaving Winston to paint and rest. It was a few years earlier that, with the income from his war memoirs, he had set up a trust for his children and grandchildren to compensate them for the loss of Chartwell. Now, in her capacity as chairman of the trust (the Prof and Brendan Bracken were two of the trustees), Clementine wrote to Winston saying that she wished to discuss ‘the plan for the Chartwell Literary Trust to buy Randolph a house’. Randolph had just told her about his forthcoming marriage, that he hoped they would have children, and that he would also need room for little Winston to visit. This letter was written four weeks before Randolph’s marriage to June at Caxton Hall on 2 November 1948. Winston and Clementine attended the wedding, and welcomed June warmly into their family. For these two ageing parents the hope was still alive that June could make a home for Randolph and introduce some peace into his unsettled life.
Randolph and June honeymooned in Biarritz at the home of a friend. When Diana Cooper went over to lunch with them, she saw at once that this couple were not attuned to each other. ‘What did either of them do it for?’ she asked Evelyn Waugh. ‘Is security so precious to her? Of course it’s not security. And he? Love doesn’t seem to be a part of it at all.’ But Evelyn replied that he had heard conflicting reports of the honeymooners, and other friends ‘spoke of bliss’.2 They returned to live in Catherine Place in Westminster, and Randolph continued to work as a journalist. But he had a dream of living in the country, and in the anticipation that the trust would buy him somewhere suitable, viewing country houses became a regular feature of their lives. Eleven months later, June produced a baby girl as beautiful as herself, to whom they gave a traditional Churchill name, Arabella.* Even before the child was born the marriage was tempestuous, and it would become worse, almost as though the couple fed on discord. There are glimpses of this strife throughout Evelyn Waugh’s diaries and letters: ‘Mrs Randolph Churchill is said to be treating him slightly more kindly. He is abject.’3 Even Clementine became involved: ‘Dearest June,’ she wrote, ‘I was very sad after I had read your letter and seen Randolph. Marriage strikes deep roots, and I pray that with you both, in spite of storms, that these roots may hold. Do not hesitate to come and see me if you think I could help.’4
Fortunately, Randolph was away a good deal during 1950, travelling in Korea as a war correspondent to report on the conflict there.* Seventeen Western war correspondents were killed in Korea during the course of this conflict and Randolph was in the thick of it, electing to accompany men on patrols in order to be able to send home punchy stories. On one of these patrols he was seriously wounded in the leg by shell fragments which also injured a number of the soldiers he was with. Randolph refused emergency treatment until he had written his report. He then organised for the copy to be given to the crew of a plane about to depart for Hong Kong, with instructions on how to file it.5
He was, though, as Waugh reported to Nancy Mitford, physically ‘in a bad way’6 and had to be repatriated for treatment. That December Waugh told friends that he had ‘heard terrible accounts of Randolph’s violence and melancholy but [I] met him at dinner…and he behaved modestly and calmly. But by all accounts this is unusual and he is losing his reason.’7 Four months later Randolph was still undergoing treatment for a wound that would not heal, which naturally made him even more short-tempered than usual. Waugh visited him in hospital where he noted that there was ‘no sign of June at the bedside’. Randolph told him his financial difficulties were ‘huge’. He needed to recover quickly in order to work his way out of them. ‘I must say I lead an awfully dull life,’ Waugh commented, ‘but when I see the alternative I am consoled.’8
After his father’s return to power, and encouraged by the Conservative resurgence, Randolph thought it would be a good time to return to politics. When he was well enough he contested the marginal seat of Devonport, Plymouth, for the Conservatives, against Michael Foot, the Labour contender. Perhaps he was still unwell, but all his natural ebullience seemed to drain from him on this occasion, and although his father spoke on his behalf in February 1952 Randolph lost by 2390 votes. He put on a brave front when he conceded defeat, but he was utterly crushed. He had seen Christopher, Mary’s husband, a complete newcomer to politics, gain a seat with apparent ease, and many of Randolph’s friends who had lost out in the postwar drubbing of the Tories were now back in Parliament. He, though, with al
l his knowledge of politics and political history, his family background and his numerous contacts, could not manage it. In fact, the only time he had ever gained a seat was when no opposition was offered. Waugh saw him immediately after this defeat and reported to Nancy Mitford that nothing Randolph had ever done deserved such a terrible punishment.
In the following summer one of Randolph’s first serious loves, the former Clementine Mitford, invited him and June to stay at Russborough House, a stunning Palladian house in the hills of County Wicklow in Ireland, that she and her husband had recently bought. Clementine had married Sir Alfred Beit in 1938,* and though there were no children it was a very happy marriage and the Beits loved to entertain their friends. They had always regarded Randolph as a friend for whom they felt vaguely sorry, and privately they always referred to him as ‘poor Randolph’. Immediately Randolph and June arrived at Russborough they began quarrelling, and continued to do so throughout their visit. Sir Alfred had warned Clementine that Randolph would behave badly, so he had the dubious satisfaction of being able to say, ‘I told you so.’9 Such behaviour was probably typical of the couple, and it says more for the patience and loyalty of their friends than for the manners of Randolph and June that they were still being invited to house parties.
Randolph had noted the peace and contentment of his parents at Chartwell in the postwar years, when financial worries were a thing of the past and even Clementine had come to terms with the house and was happy there. He had been keenly disappointed to learn that he could not inherit Chartwell, but had come to believe that if he could leave London and live in the country, he too would find contentment. This aspiration intensified after Mary and Christopher moved into the farm and started their family. Randolph could not help but be envious. He also wanted to write the official biography of his father, but he knew that it was unlikely to be feasible at present, so it was a goal he set himself for the future.
Earlier that year, on 6 February 1952, the fifty-six-year-old King George VI had died in his sleep after suffering a coronary thrombosis, although he had been ill with lung cancer and frail for some time. Winston had formed a close bond with the King during the war years, and it is no exaggeration to suggest that the romantic side of his nature accorded his sovereign a loyalty not far removed from that offered to a liege lord by a medieval knight. Jock Colville* heard the news when he arrived at No. 10 that morning. He found the Prime Minister sitting alone in his bedroom weeping. ‘I had not realised how much the King meant to him,’ Colville wrote. ‘I tried to cheer him up by saying how well he would get on with the new Queen, but all he could say was that he did not know her, and that she was only a child.’10
The next weeks were frantically busy. There was the King’s funeral, and a row between Prince Philip and the government over the name Windsor – the Prince had wanted to adopt the surname Mountbatten for Prince Charles and children-to-be, but had been overruled. Then followed a foreign affairs debate (in which Churchill and Eden squashed the Opposition), a major defence debate, and also a budget, which slashed food subsidies but provided fresh incentives for hard work and overtime and lowered the bottom rates of income tax. And all this after an exceptionally demanding diplomatic trip to the USA the previous month.
Clementine worried that it was all proving too much for Winston; and sure enough, on 21 February he suffered, in the words of Lord Moran, ‘a small arterial spasm’. He warned Clementine and Colville that this might be the precursor of a major stroke if the pressures of the PM’s life were not significantly reduced. He was, after all, seventy-seven years old and the constant stress since he took office had aged him noticeably. After speaking to Clementine, Lord Moran wrote Winston a letter to this effect and Winston took things somewhat easier for a while. But all thoughts Winston had about resigning in favour of Anthony Eden were forgotten when a local by-election showed the Labour Party gaining ground. Everyone had hoped the Conservatives would be able to relax food rationing, but it remained in force and for some items it was almost as stringent as during the war. The overwhelming response of a nation that had now suffered twelve years of shortages was probably best summed up as ‘A plague on both your houses.’
Colville’s concern about Winston’s reaction to the poor polls was mitigated by the fact that he could not see how Eden could succeed Winston, anyway. ‘He has no knowledge or experience of anything except foreign affairs,’ he wrote in his diary.11 Of Churchill, he would note in the following weeks that he was low. ‘Of course the Government is in a trough, but his periods of lowness grow more frequent and his concentration is less good. The bright and sparkling intervals still come, and they are still unequalled, but age is beginning to show.’12 One indication of this was that for the first time in his life Winston delivered a speech written for him by someone else – by Colville, in fact.
It was in August 1952 that the highly intelligent Clarissa, the thirty-two-year-old daughter of Jack and Goonie, announced that she was engaged to Anthony Eden and that they were to be married two days later at Caxton Hall. The family was stunned; only Winston and Clementine had been forewarned, and they were pleased for them both. Anthony was Winston’s trusted political heir apparent, and Clarissa his beloved brother’s only daughter for whom Winston regarded himself as standing in loco parentis. He correctly foresaw a media fuss once the announcement was made, and invited Clarissa to move into 10 Downing Street for the week of the wedding, where she could take advantage of the security facilities. She was fond of her Uncle Winston and Aunt Clementine without being close enough to them to discuss personal matters.13 At the time, Clementine was on holiday in Rome with Mary Marlborough, but Clarissa had written to her before she broke the news to Winston. Clementine received the letter with mixed feelings; she believed Clarissa was far too independent to make a successful marriage. All the same, she wished her well, and returned to Downing Street in time to organise the wedding reception, for 14 August.
No one quite expected the degree of ‘fuss’, in Colville’s words, that erupted – least of all Clarissa, who had to negotiate ‘banks of photographers’ as she moved into Downing Street. Jock Colville favoured neither bride nor groom; he thought Clarissa ‘very beautiful but…strange and bewildering, cold if sometimes witty, arrogant at times and understanding at others. Perhaps marriage will change her and will also help to calm the vain and occasionally hysterical Eden. W[inston], who feels avuncular to his orphaned niece, gave her a cheque for £500 and told me he thought she had a most unusual personality.’14
Clarissa had first met Eden when she was a teenager at a country house party, and it would have been difficult to ignore his matinée-idol looks. She saw him again at a dinner party ten years later. But it was not until 1948 that they began seeing each other regularly, and their relationship, based on many shared interests, had developed quietly without raising suspicions. In 1950 he obtained a divorce from his wife Beatrice whom he had married in 1923. The couple had one son, Nicholas, upon whom they doted, but Beatrice did not enjoy politics; indeed she found political life boring and moved to the United States in 1946, thereby enabling Eden to claim desertion as the reason for their divorce. At that time the Church of England would not marry a divorced person, hence the need for a register office wedding, but in any case Clarissa had been raised by Goonie as a Catholic and marriage to a divorced person was proscribed.
Evelyn Waugh, a fellow Catholic, was outraged that Clarissa had chosen to ignore the laws of the Church, and he and Randolph quarrelled about it; Randolph took the line that as Waugh was not an archbishop, nor the editor of the Catholic newspaper The Tablet, nor even her cousin like him, what business was it of Waugh’s? But Waugh thought it was his business and wrote to Clarissa that he was appalled. Of Randolph’s defence of her he added: ‘I know and love Randolph too much ever to think better or worse of him.’15
All the Churchills attended, and Winston was the principal witness. After a few photographs the wedding party drove to Downing Street where Clementine ha
d filled the room with flowers from Chartwell. The following day the couple flew to Portugal for a short honeymoon.
If one had to describe Anthony Eden in as few words as possible, the most succinct description would be: ‘He was a decent man.’ Utterly honest and sincere, he was a natural diplomat, though he lacked a sense of humour. In Churchill’s new administration he was once again given the Foreign Office, which he ran under the ethos ‘Be firm, be friendly, be fair.’ When negotiating he seemed to realise unerringly when a goal became unachievable, and instead would ask for something less than the opposition expected, which seemed to wrong-foot his opponents and nearly always worked in his favour. Some of the agreements he brokered helped to maintain peace in a united Europe during the Cold War years, and certainly prevented Russia from gobbling up more German territory.
Churchill did not allow his deteriorating health to prevent him from doing whatever he felt must be done. Determined to mitigate the Russian threat and convinced that American assistance was the only way of ensuring this, he made another visit to the United States in January 1953, aboard the Cunard liner Queen Mary. Despite his waning physical powers he still retained a total grasp of world affairs, and during the voyage he confided in Colville. ‘He said that if I lived my normal span,’ Colville wrote, ‘I should assuredly see Eastern Europe freed of Communism. He also said that Russia feared our friendship more than our enmity.’ Winston told Colville that after Eisenhower won the presidency (in 1953) he (Winston) was obliged to expunge a good deal of material from volume six of his war memoirs to avoid offending him. The United States, he said, had given away vast tracts of Europe to Russia (land the Russians had occupied) because they were suspicious of Churchill’s pleas for caution. He had been too sidetracked by the 1945 election, he went on, to prevent Truman from underwriting such land distribution, but he could not blame Truman, who had been a mere novice at negotiation. Had FDR lived and been in good health, he said, he would have seen ‘the red light’ and checked this American policy.16
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