by Mary Soames
When war was declared we had all braced ourselves for sudden and terrible events to descend upon us, and the ensuing months of almost uncanny lack of activity as far as enemy action was concerned, both on land and in the air, became known as the “phoney war” or the “twilight war.” While energetic preparations continued, particularly in air-raid precautions and military training, life in many aspects continued much as before, although getting used to the blackout was a challenge for everybody.
For my part I was unashamedly happy and excited by what I regarded as my first taste of “grown-up” life—the visible badges of which were a telephone in my room and a latchkey. Being up to now a country bumpkin, and on my spasmodic visits to London having invariably been accompanied by Nana, finding my way round by bus and underground between Queen’s College, my music lessons, modern-dancing classes, and my war work seemed quite an adventure—and, until I got the hang of it, very time-consuming. Sometime during this winter, also, I learned to drive and passed my test: Minis did not exist then, and I drove my mother’s rather bulky Austin—when her own needs and petrol coupons permitted.
Being continuously with my parents in a relatively small house was also a new aspect of my life. My relationship with my mother seemed easier, for we were both very busy. As always, organizing our domestic life round Winston’s needs and wishes was Clementine’s priority: part of this was making the newly finished Orchard Cottage habitable, pretty, and comfortable for weekends, and during this winter and early spring we spent some happy times there. Winston’s big study at Chartwell was kept open as he was still spending some time trying to finish his A History of the English-Speaking Peoples*—and, of course, the red boxes arrived regularly with Admiralty business. But apart from these domestic concerns, Clementine straightaway involved herself in naval welfare activities. She helped raise funds for comforts for the crew of minesweepers and other coastal craft; in consequence there were always bundles of the thick fleecy wool, used to knit jerseys, lying about in our sitting room, ready to be pressed on visiting friends along with needles and instructions. (I’m afraid I evaded being conscripted into this excellent work, my battles with herringbone stitch at the Red Cross workrooms being quite enough for my inadequate skills.)
From the first days there was a continuous stream of people for luncheon or dinner. The guests were mostly my father’s political or naval colleagues, and I helped my mother with the entertaining, deputizing for her if she had an outside engagement. Our private social life was confined to family members and one or two very close friends, such as the Prof or Cousin Sylvia Henley, because for Winston mealtimes were merely a necessary and agreeable continuation of working hours, when he could get to know colleagues better, or pursue some line of thought or strategy. The shadow of secrecy therefore hung over conversation: the servants had to be “vetted,” and the presence of outsiders or “fringe” friends inhibited the talk which was so vital to Winston. I don’t remember my mother lecturing me about this aspect of our life; she assumed that I understood, which I did—as did other members of our family: we prided ourselves on being “padlock.” Undoubtedly one heard things that were not for repetition: occasionally my father would say rather fiercely: “That’s secret …” and then more mildly (if one looked a little hurt): “… I only label it!”
But while this period on other fronts earned its tag of the “twilight war,” at sea hostilities had begun in earnest within hours of the declaration of war. First came the sinking of the Athenia; and in mid-September we sustained our first loss of a capital ship, the aircraft carrier Courageous, sunk by a U-boat in the Bristol Channel. The convoy system was only in its formative stages, and losses of merchantmen became a daily occurrence. A horrendous shock was the torpedoing by a U-boat on 14 October of the battleship Royal Oak while she lay in supposed safety in Scapa Flow, with the loss of eight hundred officers and men. Winston, with his vivid imagination and intimate knowledge of the Royal Navy, felt losses such as these deeply and personally.
A new and sinister danger developed when the Germans started laying deadly magnetic mines in coastal approaches and estuaries. For several nerve-racking weeks we had no countermeasures to set against these weapons, and by mid-November they had accounted for losses of 60,000 tons of British shipping in the North Sea. This problem caused my father and his Admiralty colleagues deep anxiety: he took the closest interest when some unexploded mines were found stranded in the mud at low tide near Shoeburyness, and followed minutely the tense first examination of these lethal objects by a few skilled and extremely cool and brave naval personnel. As a result of their investigations the secret of this deadly weapon was discovered, and effective protection for ships was speedily devised.
I was naturally passionately interested in anything pertaining to the navy: I often saw how deeply my father felt the losses of ships and men, and sometimes heard him discussing their significance from the strategic angle, and I remember the tensions surrounding the drama of the magnetic mines. Of course I did not know the whole story, but I learned enough to gauge how serious a threat they posed, and I was allowed to know the tale of skill and bravery that solved the mystery.
It was, of course, grippingly fascinating for me to be “in” on so much of all this. I was quite used from Chartwell life to being present when public events and politics were being discussed; I had become emotionally overexcited by the Munich crisis, and I had my own oversimplified lists of political goodies and baddies. Now, though, the whole emphasis was changed, and (although I did not analyze it in these terms at the time) I was seeing my father in a different context: I was seeing him at work. I met his Admiralty colleagues and learned their roles—from the Sea Lords with their multiple gold braid bands of seniority and rows of service medals, orders, and decorations, to the much younger and less-braided duty officers who might appear, unbidden, at any moment, with instant access to my father: bearers of news, sometimes good, often bad, which he might or might not communicate to those of us with him. Sometimes, with barely an apology to his guests, he would leave the room with the officer, table napkin in hand, and go through that locked door to where the war at sea was being conducted: sometimes he would return before the meal was finished and, picking up the thread of conversation as best he might while his plate (carefully kept warm) was placed before him, excuse himself with the (obvious) explanation and apology for the necessity of urgent business—and one knew better than to enquire further. But sometimes we might be told of some unfolding action at sea: then one would have a secret thrill when listening to the news a few hours, or perhaps even some days, later, and feeling one had been “in” on it.
Winston always had an admiration and liking for the young and brave, and while he was at the Admiralty he relished meeting those whose duty lay at the “sharp end.” He personally interviewed the courageous and skilful team who first investigated the opportunely stranded magnetic mines, and ensured their gallantry was properly recognized: a few weeks later they were decorated by the King. The exploits of our submarines, and the special strains and dangers their crews endured in the claustrophobic conditions many fathoms down, gripped my father’s interest and imagination. One particular young submariner, Lieutenant Commander Edward Bickford, visited him quite often. He was commanding officer of HMS Salmon, which had distinguished itself by torpedoing two German cruisers, an achievement for which he was awarded the DSO; my father respected his knowledge of submarine warfare as well as his bravery. Commander Bickford came several times to lunch or dine with us all; he was handsome, clever, and debonair, and we liked him very much. After a while we noticed with anxiety that he looked increasingly tired and drawn: the arduous winter patrolling was taking its toll. In late February 1940, Winston urged that the Salmon should go to Devonport as a “practice” submarine, and that Bickford should go for a spell to the Plans Division of the Admiralty: but when Winston saw him, he earnestly demanded not to be taken from active duty. His request was granted, and he returned to sea a sho
rt while after he was married in May 1940. At the end of July we were shocked and saddened to learn that the Salmon had been lost with all hands off Norway: she was thought to have struck a mine. Although I really knew him only very slightly, I took the news very hard. Edward Bickford was, I suppose, one of the first people I had met to be killed in the war; we had felt involved with his destiny, and I had been gripped by his glamour and gallantry. On 22 July I wept to my diary:
It is practically certain he and his crew & their Salmon are lost. God rest their souls in peace. I feel so sorry for his poor newlywed wife. poor girl. I must say he was one of the best looking men I have ever seen—& such vitality & charm. I find it difficult to realise that he no longer exists—& that somewhere his dead body is being dashed & mouldered [sic] by the cold sea waves …
ALTHOUGH WINSTON AND Neville Chamberlain had been ministerial colleagues in Stanley Baldwin’s government, they had never been close, and of course during Chamberlain’s term as Prime Minister and his espousal of “appeasement” their relationship became increasingly acerbic; but with the war (and although Churchill’s inclusion in his government was virtually forced upon Chamberlain), both men genuinely put aside past animosities, and in furtherance of general harmony my parents invited Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain to dine with them at Admiralty House. I was included in the small dinner party, for which my mother expended herself in making the rooms pretty and the food delicious. All went extremely agreeably; in fact my father was gripped by the account the Prime Minister gave him of his early life of considerable hardship in trying to grow sisal on a small Caribbean island in which his formidable father, the great Joseph Chamberlain, had invested high hopes and a considerable amount of money: despite his son’s heroic efforts over six years the project was a total failure. My father recalled in his war memoirs that “this was really the only intimate social conversation that I can remember with Neville Chamberlain amid all the business we did together over nearly twenty years.”1
Anne Chamberlain presented a strong contrast, both in appearance and in manner, to her laconic, angular, almost scarecrow-effect husband: she was amply made and rather beautiful, in an “English rose” way, and she had a charmingly vague manner, occasionally asking some odd questions (disrespectfully described as “cuckoo” in my diary), which made one think she hadn’t been following the general drift of conversation—perhaps she hadn’t!
During the course of dinner an officer appeared three times, on each occasion announcing that a U-boat had been sunk. My father recorded that “nothing like this had ever happened before in a single day … as the ladies left us, Mrs Chamberlain, with a naïve and charming glance, said to me, ‘Did you arrange all this on purpose?’ ”2 I notice now that friendly evening was 13 October: early the next morning my father would receive the news of the sinking of the Royal Oak. So goes it in war.
Treats which came my way from time to time were trips in the company of my parents to various naval establishments and ports, when my father was inspecting new projects—such as the methods to counter magnetic mines, or the development of ASDIC (the system of submarine detection that preceded radar). My mother and I were of course not privy to many of the actual demonstrations: we would be taken on a different programme which often included visiting ships in port at the time. For me it was all riveting: there is an inherent glamour attached to the navy, its ships, and personnel, which captivated me then, and to which indeed I am still in thrall.
One particularly glamorous and memorable occasion came in March 1940, when my father, a cloud of admirals, and I accompanied my mother to Barrow-in-Furness to witness her launch the aircraft carrier HMS Indomitable: there are few sights to beat the launching of a great ship, and in those wartime days such a ceremony struck profound chords. A lovely photograph was taken of my mother waving the great ship away: after the war my father painted a charming sketch-portrait of her from it, which now hangs in the Blue Sitting Room at Chartwell.
Not all away days were naval occasions: at the end of January 1940 Winston went to Manchester to address a great meeting of over two thousand people in the great Free Trade Hall. My mother and I, along with Randolph and Pamela, were there to hear him. One effect of the “twilight war” had been to produce a certain amount of apathy nationally, and the theme of his speech was the necessity for greater efforts from workers in industry; he also announced the recruitment of a million women into workshops and factories. At the end he received a tremendous ovation. We had travelled up early that morning: it was a bleak winter’s day—we found Manchester shrouded in snow and icy fog—and during the journey my father had been “very fratchetty with his speech on his mind,” as I noted in my diary that evening. On our return journey, however, Winston—buoyed up by the success of the speech—was in relaxed form; we dined en famille on the train, and although we were all rather tired, we had a happy time together. As the war went on such moments were very precious, and one remembered them.
It was during this winter, on these and other expeditions, that I first perceived my father in relation not only to his colleagues and to service personnel but to the general public, and remarked the effect they had on him—and he on them. I noticed how instantly he was recognized, and how intently people listened to his speeches, or hung on his remarks.
LONDON SOCIAL LIFE was lively: despite the blackout, theatres were full, there were plenty of nightclubs for late dancing after restaurants closed, and many people still gave dinner parties, often organized round a son on leave. Judy Montagu was now rapidly becoming my best friend and confidante; her mother, Cousin Venetia, was most hospitable, and mixed her own glamorous and sophisticated friends in with the younger generation. These included figures such as Lady Diana Cooper, a legend of beauty and eccentricity; Freda Dudley-Ward, a most charming person and for years the Prince of Wales’s maîtresse en titre (eventually to be displaced by Mrs. Simpson); and Victor Rothschild—Lord Rothschild—secretive, sarcastic, brilliant, and brave (he would be awarded the George Medal in 1944). Quite often we would dine where one could also dance: the Savoy Hotel and the Dorchester, the Café de Paris and Kettners were all favourite places—for Judy and I were not deemed to be “out,” and so were (officially) not allowed to go to nightclubs. It is strange to think these social niceties were still observed. Needless to say, the more dashing among us would somehow contrive to sneak off to either the 400 or “Le Suivi” with the favourite young man of the moment: I was always rather prim and would be dropped home first.
Another circle of friends with whom I had countless evenings of enjoyment centred on the Bruce family, to whom I was introduced by Alastair (Ali) Forbes and his sister Iris, who was in London at ballet school. Kate Mary Bruce, handsome and sparky, was one of the daughters of Viscount Maugham (a brother of Somerset Maugham), at this point Lord Chancellor in the Chamberlain government: she was married to Robert Bruce—a very nice if rather bombastic man—and their son David was a great friend of the Forbes family.
The Bruces were immensely hospitable, and I had a lot of fun in their house. A lasting friendship I made at this time was with Robin Maugham, the only son of Lord and Lady Maugham, who was often at the parties in his cousins’ house in Cadogan Square, which was just a few numbers away from his own home. Robin was good-looking and full of charm; he would refer engagingly to “my Uncle Willie who writes.” He introduced me to his parents, who were civil, but not over-enthusiastic, in their welcome: indeed, Lord Maugham was distinctly chilly—being a great supporter of Mr. Chamberlain, he probably disapproved deeply of my father—so it was more fun to foregather with Robin and his friends and relations in Kate Mary’s carefree abode down the way.
A favourite meeting place for our group was the Players’ Theatre in King Street, near Covent Garden (then still the great flower and vegetable market). The intimate and cliquey show—“Ridgeway’s Late Joys”—was a cabaret-style performance, the audience sitting at small tables and partaking of drinks and snacks while being entertained by a small
group of actors who specialized in reviving old music-hall songs. The performers included some already rising to fame, such as Peter Ustinov, Alec Clunes, Bernard Miles, Patricia Hayes, and Joan Sterndale Bennett; they were led by Leonard Sachs on a real honky-tonk piano, and used a minimal wardrobe of Victorian and Edwardian costumes, hats, and caps. It was all very jolly, with maximum audience participation in the choruses and a lot of “in-house” jokes. In this first winter of the war the performances were rarely interrupted (except by false alarms, to which no one paid much notice). Emerging when the theatre closed, usually at two a.m., one would find the market already getting busy, with porters carrying tier upon tier of baskets on their heads. Later, when the Blitz began in earnest, the Players’ (like most theatres) carried on gallantly, though it was forced to move its premises to a basement in Albemarle Street, off Piccadilly, where it encouraged its patrons to bring “a pillow and a rug” and to stay the night! The club survived the war and indeed the century, continuing in business until 2002.
More often than not we would go home on foot—taxis could be few and far between—and one of my enduring memories of this period of the war is of how mysterious and beautiful blacked-out London was on moonlit nights. If we had been at the Players’, I would be the first to be dropped off; as we were often very late (or early!) there would be no traffic, the only sounds those of voices and distant footfalls. Emerging from streets deep in shadow like dark valleys into the great expanse of Trafalgar Square flooded with moonlight, the classical symmetry of St. Martin-in-the-Fields etched in the background and Nelson’s Column soaring away up into the night above his guardian lions so formidable and black—this was a sight I shall never forget.