‘We will soon have a third child. I cannot support myself on my own, let alone with four mouths to feed. Dearest mother is practically living in penury, and my father has disowned me.’
Clemmie’s eyes begin to fill with tears. Winston melts at the sight; he cannot bear to see his beloved cry.
‘Darling, I’m so sorry. I know how difficult it has been for you.’
‘Winston, I must insist, you are not to fly. You are First Lord of the Admiralty, not a serving officer!’
Winston looks at her closely. He sees that her ultimatum is absolute.
‘Very well, no more flying.’
‘As of today? And you will keep your promise this time?’
‘Yes and yes, darling Cat, for you and the kittens.’
Clemmie dabs the tears from her eyes and kisses Winston on the cheek.
‘How is the fiancée of that poor man who was teaching you, the man who was killed flying across the Channel?’
‘Airlie Hynes, dear old Gilbert Lushington’s girl?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Poor girl!’
‘I believe she is as well as can be expected. Lushington wrote to me on the morning of the day he died. I sent the letter on to her with a note from me. She wrote me a very sweet letter by return.’
‘That was thoughtful of you. But her sad loss makes my point. It could so easily have been you, Pig.’
‘I know, Cat, I know.’ Winston gently places his hand on his wife’s swollen belly. ‘How’s kitten number three?’
‘Being a little beast; it’s never still.’
‘Then let’s feed you and the brute, and see if another glass of Pol Roger will put it to sleep.’
The First Lord of the Admiralty adjusts his favourite black polka-dot bow tie, gives Clemmie his arm and strides the three of them off to dinner with his usual purposeful gait.
HMS Enchantress is a nautical oddity. It is a naval sloop, but powered by steam, resembling a cross between a sleek tea clipper and a stout cross-Channel steamer. The elegant lines of its gleaming black hull and lofty masts and rigging are ruined by a huge grey funnel amidships. Nevertheless, it serves as the Admiralty’s showcase yacht and, at 320 feet, with a complement of 10 officers, 186 men and armed with four 3lb guns, it makes a splendid sight at sea and a stylish abode in harbour.
Winston has made Enchantress his personal domain and has spent a total of eight months on board during the previous year and a half. In fact, the frequency of his occupation and the large numbers of family and friends he invites on board for dinner, weekends and longer visits, including cruises around the Mediterranean, has caused questions to be asked in Parliament. But Winston is undaunted, pointing out that all the on-board hospitality is paid for out of his own pocket.
Not that his pockets are very deep. He is constantly in debt, his lavish lifestyle significantly outstripping his income. It is only his copious writing, as a renowned author and journalist, which keeps him afloat, quite apart from the fact that he is notoriously lax in paying his bills.
A formal dinner in the Enchantress’s wardroom is a spectacular sight. The decor is a blend of polished mahogany and gleaming brass, the table glows with burnished silver and sparkling porcelain, and the officers look immaculate in their navy-blue uniforms and gold braid.
Tonight’s gathering is highly convivial, even by Winston’s standards. F. E. Smith tells stories, mainly of the bizarre happenings in Britain’s courtrooms and the eccentric lawyers who inhabit them, while Winston holds forth about the most pressing issues of the day. Although on opposite sides of the House of Commons, F. E. Smith (the Conservative) and Winston (the Liberal) are very close.
A self-made lawyer from humble middle-class origins on Merseyside, FE failed the examination to get into Harrow and had to climb the academic and social ladder slowly and diligently. Winston, on the other hand, is aristocratic and able to move with nonchalance in the highest circles. Their origins have little in common. However, they both have an astonishing gift for words, boast a rapacious appetite for the good things in life and possess unquenchable ambition. They recognize the qualities each has, and they revel in one another’s company.
Wardroom etiquette usually demands that three subjects are taboo: politics, religion and women (which means sex). But with Winston and F. E. Smith present, such taboos are futile.
Two officers at the far end of the wardroom table have spent most of the evening talking about Winston.
‘You know, one of the most remarkable things about him is his rapport with the men. They all know he’s a toff and can be very abrupt, but he has a way with him that they take to. Have you noticed, his voice does not have the cut-glass edge of the aristocracy? His accent is more middle-England.’
‘You’re right; that never occurred to me. Do you think he has cultivated it deliberately?’
‘I suspect not. He’s just different from the rest of us; a complete original, infuriatingly irresistible. He appears to sees no barriers between people and is just as comfortable talking to a stoker as he is to a member of the Cabinet. People sense that, and respond in kind.’
‘You mean he talks down to both? And tells them what to think!’
‘Yes, something like that.’
‘How far can he go, do you think?’
‘Good question; he’d probably make a great general or admiral.
‘I recently read his thoughts about Nelson. He called him our “greatest commander”. I could see him as a Nelson or a Wellington – or, of course, in the guise of his ancestor, Marlborough – but in politics, not much further than he is now. I don’t think he’s yet forty; he must drive the old boys to distraction, especially the Tories. He’s too hot-headed for higher office, we’d be at war the entire time!’
Starved of the affection of both his mother and father, Winston had an unhappy childhood and did not enjoy school, where he was generally regarded as ‘troublesome’. However, despite his turbulent demeanour, physical frailties, bright red hair, baby-faced features and a marked speech impediment, he has an astonishing effect on all who meet him. His wit, energy and fortitude are overwhelming and, despite his noticeable lisp, he can command an audience with oratory that is universally admired. He has seen action in Cuba. He fought, was captured and escaped during the Boer War. He served on India’s North-West Frontier and was at the heart of the fighting at the Battle of Omdurman, the last cavalry charge of the British Army. All his adventures reflect a single-minded and relentless pursuit of his determination to be a leader of men.
All is good humoured at dinner until, in a momentary lull in the conversation – and to the horror of his commanding officer – a brazen young cadet speaks directly to the head of the nation’s navy. He raises the most topical and divisive subject of the day: the continuing threats made by Sir Edward Carson, leader of the Ulster Unionists. The Unionists of the Protestant northern counties of Ireland are saying loudly and unequivocally that they will do all in their power to resist Irish home rule. They are adamant that they will take up arms to stay in the United Kingdom.
‘Sir, may I ask, why do you not agree with Mr Bonar Law and the Conservatives that, if the Ulster Protestants do not want to be part of an Irish Republic that pays homage to the Roman Papacy, they should be allowed to remain with us in Britain?’
Winston bristles, but he knows that the young man is fresh out of Dartmouth Naval College and so tempers his reply.
‘Well, sir, I never agree with Mr Bonar Law and the Conservatives as a matter of principle.’
Winston waits for the laughter to subside and hopes that the young man will be content with his flippant reply. But the boy is not satisfied.
‘Sir, my question is a serious one. Is not loyalty to Britain and the Empire to be admired?’
Winston takes a breath.
‘I was jesting, of course. Yours is a question of some merit, so let me attempt to answer frankly. With my good friend here, Mr F. E. Smith, I have spent many hours talking to the Unionists. They a
re a tenacious lot, but immensely loyal to Britain and the Empire and, if I may be so bold, to their own self-interests. I cannot fault loyalty and I understand self-interest, but where is the loyalty in forming a militia, armed with German rifles, to force the hand of the government at Westminster? Is that not taking self-interest into a corrosive dimension, young man?’
The junior officer begins to respond, eager to grapple with Winston, but F. E. Smith interrupts him.
‘Sub Lieutenant, what do you think of the Montepulciano? Don’t you think it’s awfully good? I’m told the Pope is very fond of it.’ He turns to Winston. ‘Perhaps we should send a case to Carson, marked “With the compliments of Pius X”?’
Most at the table are unable to stop themselves enjoying F. E. Smith’s barbed remark and there are a few chortles of laughter. Chastened, the young officer realizes he is being asked to desist and lowers his head to hide his blushes.
Winston smiles at him.
‘Young sir, come and see me during our voyage back to Portsmouth and we will talk further about your laudable passion for Britain and the Empire.’
Clemmie places her hand on Winston’s arm and whispers to him.
‘That was kind, Pig.’
Winston looks down at his empty glass. He seems suddenly pensive and leans towards Clemmie and FE, seated next to her, making sure that only they can hear.
‘Ireland has vexed us for years, but now it’s the least of our problems.’
FE looks at Clemmie sympathetically. He recognizes the sudden look of melancholy on Winston’s face just as readily as she does. He also knows what troubles his friend.
‘There is a diabolical mechanism being primed in Europe which fills me with dread. The Kaiser and his generals are fuelling it with men and weapons. And their enemies, especially the French and the Russians, are reciprocating.’
Clemmie casts a knowing glance at FE and leans across to her husband.
‘Winston, please don’t become morose about the Germans again.’
‘Clemmie, my darling, I’m not morose, I’m anxious. We are certain to be dragged into it if comes to a fight, and our army’s not numerous enough to fight a major war in Europe. I’ve tried my damnedest with the navy, which is all-powerful, but I worry about our army. We have so few experienced men.’
‘Please, Winston, you’ll give me and the kitten indigestion. You can talk war with the men later, when I’ve gone to bed.’
Winston has not really heard his wife’s plea; he is staring out of the wardroom porthole, beyond Dieppe’s harbour, into the English Channel.
‘At home, working people are on strike everywhere, mostly with just cause. Will those men fight if they are called to arms? In God’s name, I hope so.’
FE tries to reassure his friend.
‘They will fight, Winston. We are a nation of fighters.’
‘You are a Birkenhead man, FE. Tell me, in truth, what is the mood on Merseyside?’
‘Well, there’s no doubt there’s belligerence. We’ve had more than our share of strikes and some appalling violence. But the unrest is about pay and standards of living. If they are called to fight for the King and the Empire, they won’t hesitate.’
‘That is comforting to hear; I suppose the same is true in my constituency, in Dundee.’ His expression takes on an even more pained look. ‘Not that I’m there very often, poor buggers. I don’t think I do a very good job for them.’
He turns towards a painting of Horatio Nelson, the hero of Trafalgar, which hangs on the wardroom wall.
‘My biggest unease is that we haven’t fought in Europe for almost a hundred years – not since the days of that man and the redoubtable Wellington – and the German Army is formidable. I pray that French military elan is still what it was, that it can hold a German attack. Our army is pitifully small. It is used to confronting colonial mutineers brandishing swords and spears; it is too old-fashioned to support the French in a significant way against a German attack. We need more heavy artillery and armoured vehicles, not cavalry horses and sabres.’
‘Why don’t you ask Asquith for oversight of all our defences?’
‘I have, FE, believe me, I have.’
Clemmie clutches her stomach, wincing at another assault by her unborn child.
‘Winston, please don’t be so melodramatic; this is a dinner party, not a meeting of the Cabinet.’
Churchill does not look up, even when his glass is filled with more Tuscan wine, but FE responds to Clemmie’s plea for bonhomie. He raises his voice above the chatter of the dinner table.
‘The other day, a high court judge asked me what I would give a man who would let himself be buggered …’
Friday 5 June
Blair Atholl Castle, Perthshire
‘Grim news in The Times this morning, Father.’
‘There’s always bad news in the papers; that’s what sells the damn things.’
Despite his father’s indifference, John George Stewart-Murray, Marquess of Tullibardine, known to the family as ‘Bardie’, the eldest son of the 7th Duke of Atholl, begins to recite the headlines.
‘ “Suffragettes burn Wargrave Church, Henley”.’
‘I’d horsewhip the buggers!’
‘Quite so, Father, if a little harsh.’
Despite his father’s initial disinterest, which is now turning to irritation, Bardie continues his musings.
‘ “The Balkans in turmoil. Durazzo” – which I think you told me you visited once – “under siege”.’
‘Durazzo, bloody awful shitty place, full of Albanian cut-throats.’
‘Well, everyone seems to be fighting over it.’
‘Bardie, please; you are ruining my bloody breakfast. Where are your brothers? You can keep them amused with the headlines.’ The old duke’s bile has been well and truly stirred. ‘Bloody Balkans. We need to stay well clear of all that. The world is in bloody chaos. That little bastard Welshman, Lloyd George, has put up supertax to a shilling and fourpence in the pound. The man’s a damned communist. Everyone’s on strike; even the buggers who make cricket balls walked out the other day. Bloody nerve! Some communist union will be at the back of that.’
As his father’s tirade against the world gains momentum, Bardie finally realizes his mistake and pushes his head deeper into the protection of his newspaper. Fortunately, just as the old man launches into the vexing question of the Irish and their ‘appalling’ demands for independence, Bardie’s two brothers arrive.
‘Morning, Father.’
The two speak almost in unison to their father, John James Hugh Henry Stewart-Murray, Chief of the Clan Murray and Commander-in-Chief of the Atholl Highlanders, Europe’s only surviving private army. As he does every morning, he inspects the attire of his two sons for its propriety and scrutinizes their shoes for the obligatory lustrous shine. Not that the boys have to polish their shoes, or prepare their clothes; that is all done for them by the valets belonging to Blair Atholl’s regiment of servants.
‘Why the hell are you two always bloody late?’
‘We’re not, Father; you and Bardie are early.’
The duke glances at the clock. It is two minutes to seven. The boys are right, but the old boy growls all the same.
‘Oh, very well, sit down. Bardie wants to tell you about how the world is going mad!’
Perhaps wisely, Bardie chooses not to reveal any more news and, with Blair Atholl’s exemplary staff hovering around them, the four men consume their more than ample breakfasts. A few minutes later, the duke breaks the silence.
‘I’m off to see Inglis about the gardeners. They’ve cut that bloody hedge by the greenhouses too low again, trying to save themselves work – lazy buggers!’
The three boys smile at one another as their father leaves. Forsyth, the butler, bows as the duke passes and the first footman, Dougie, rushes to open the dining-room door for him.
The old duke’s gruff manner disguises a much kinder disposition than appears on the surface. He loves hi
s family, is loyal to his friends and is generous to those who work for his house and estate. Even so, his views about the health of the nation and the affairs of the world are somewhat blunt and his solutions to the ills he perceives in both are rather draconian, even by the highly conservative standards of the day.
As they are required to by their father – every morning, without exception – the three Stewart-Murray boys look immaculate in their Prince Charlie jackets and ties and the blue and green tartan kilts of the Murray Clan. Each learned Gaelic before English; they went to Eton in turn and then followed one another into the army. They are all decorated soldiers and veterans of the Boer War.
Bardie, the tallest and fairest of the three, is forty-three years old and Member of Parliament for West Perthshire. He served in the Royal Horse Guards and commands the Scottish Horse, which General Kitchener asked him to raise for the Boer War. Lord George, known as ‘Geordie’, is shorter, darker and more solid than Bardie, and his younger brother by two years. He is in the Black Watch, was a defender at Ladysmith and served in India as aide-de-camp to its Viceroy, Lord Elgin. The youngest brother, Lord James, who goes by the name ‘Hamish’ (the Gaelic form), is more in the mould of Geordie than Bardie and is the youngest of the family, at the age of thirty-four. He is a major in the Cameron Highlanders and was mentioned in dispatches in South Africa.
All three Stewart-Murray boys have perfected that air of aloof charm so typical of the social graces of the well-mannered aristocracy, who can make an art form out of affable superiority. Their neatly trimmed ‘eleven a side’ moustaches suggest order and discipline, but with a hint of rakishness.
Bardie, having finished with his newspaper, passes it to Hamish, who is keen to read the news – not so much to discern the details of the world’s woes as to enjoy its latest scandals.
‘I see that Frenchwoman, Henriette Caillaux, is going to stand trial.’
Neither Bardie nor Geordie appears particularly interested, but the brothers politely inquire about the identity of the lady in question.
‘You two really need to take more interest in the world at large.’
The Shadow of War Page 3