Churchill's Hour (18 page)

‘You've already had a reasoned proposal,' Churchill spat.

‘I didn't mean to imply—' But the look in Churchill's eye cut him short.

‘Not enough commandos. Not enough air cover,' he growled in contempt. ‘Well, we have bombers, don't we? We can at least bomb the bastards!' With that he stormed out.

He left London a few hours later. The heat had become insufferable and even at Chequers it remained endlessly oppressive. He felt claustrophobic, as though the walls were closing in on him. He fled, silently and alone, towards Beacon Hill, dragging his fears behind him.

The shimmering eye of the sun had just touched the top of the beech wood when, from behind him, he heard a peculiar squeaking noise. He turned in annoyance, and found Sawyers approaching. His
cheeks were red and he was carrying a galvanized bucket, which was the cause of both the squeak and the sweat that prickled on his brow.

‘Do you have to make such an infernal racket?'

‘Only bucket to be found. Thought yer might be needing it.'

‘And why in God's name would I need a bloody bucket?'

Almost as he had finished complaining, he saw that the bucket was filled with ice, and in the middle of the ice sat a bottle of Pol Roger.

Churchill snorted like a pricked bull; it was all he could find as an expression of gratitude. ‘You expect me to drink it out of the bottle?'

From his jacket pocket Sawyers produced a glass, wrapped in a tea towel, which he proceeded to polish with meticulous care.

Churchill studied the valet, who had a suspicious bulge on the other side of his jacket. ‘You brought another glass?'

‘Just in case you didn't want to be drinking on yer own, zur.'

‘My God, but you have your moments, Sawyers.'

Churchill settled down on the stump of an old moss-covered tree. The bucket was placed beside it, and Sawyers began administering the last rites to the champagne. As the shadows lengthened, the scent of early summer travelled easily on the air and the wings of dancing insects glistened in the
last rays of sunlight. From the beech wood came the sounds of courting pigeons. It should have been idyllic. For a moment, Sawyers let him pretend.

‘Next weekend, zur,' he asked eventually. ‘Who shall we expect?'

‘The entire bloody world and his uncle,' Churchill complained into his glass. Then, more softly: ‘And the family, of course. I want to see the family.'

‘Mr Oliver?'

‘No. I don't think he will be coming back.'

Sawyers paused to show that he understood.

‘Sarah will come, I hope,' Churchill continued. ‘Mary, too, if she's available.'

‘And Miss Pamela?' Sawyers asked, affecting nonchalance, studying his glass as though a fly had fallen in. ‘And wha' about our Mr Harriman? I believe he's due back in a few days from that trip o' his to foreign parts.'

Churchill's eyes flashed at his valet. Just how much did the wretched man know? Everything, of course, that was his job.

Conflicting loyalties twisted inside Churchill like old ivy. A letter had recently arrived from Randolph. ‘I have been tremendously impressed by Harriman,' Randolph had written, ‘and can well understand the regard which you have for him. In ten very full and active days he has definitely become my favourite American.'

Oh, Randolph, most darling and deceived of sons…

‘I have become very intimate with him,' the letter concluded.

Churchill's head sagged. ‘What do I do?' he whispered. And again: ‘What do I do?'

About Randolph, about Pamela, about Harriman, Sarah and the rest. About the fact that in two months' time the bombers and the invasion barges could be back. About his buff-coloured box, from which he had just learnt that the Japanese were on the point of marching their armies into Indo-China, moving remorselessly south, ever closer to the British Empire. Soon they would have air and sea bases in Saigon, just six hundred miles from Singapore. And about the Americans, whom he could never persuade to fight.

He was no longer in control. He was reduced to sitting like an old man on his stool and watching as the world strutted by.

He looked up. Sawyers was standing there, his eyebrow raised, waiting for his answer. Pamela. Harriman. Under his roof? His heart ached. Yet he needed America, needed Harriman. Slowly, bleakly, the words came.

‘Let them come.'

He drained his glass and handed it back to Sawyers, who wiped it as carefully as if it were a chalice.

‘Even the Almighty had to watch his only son suffer. Nowt to be done. You jest have to have a belief that it'll all come out right in the end.'

It took Churchill many moments before he was able to compose himself. His lips struggled as they found the words. ‘I shall be unwise and let you into a state secret. You are a good man, Sawyers.'

‘State secret, you say? Then I think I should forget you ever said that.'

‘Yes. I already have.'

And suddenly the fire had been rekindled. He thrust his walking stick in the ground and hoisted himself to his feet, setting off towards the house. He left Sawyers struggling with the bucket in his wake.

As they drew near to Chequers they could see the Prime Minister's detective and private secretary scurrying back and forth in search of their lost charge. It was a game Churchill liked to play, slipping his shadows, a game he was able occasionally to win.

‘Beat ‘em,' he declared with an air of satisfaction. ‘And we may yet beat ‘em all, Sawyers.'

‘Let's hope so,' the servant panted, trailing behind, clutching the bucket to his chest.

‘Oh, and what about your maid?' Churchill continued, coming to an abrupt halt as though tripping over a new thought.

‘Héloise?' Gratefully the valet caught his breath. ‘Jest what I told yer last. ‘Cept for her brother.'

‘What about her brother?'

‘You remember, the one in navy? Mrs Landemare reckons he's dead. Earlier in war. On active service, she thinks.'

Churchill's head was up, like a hare sniffing the breeze and sensing danger.

‘I know nowt else,' Sawyers concluded.

‘Oh, but I think I do,' Churchill replied, as the last fractions of the sun slipped beyond the horizon. ‘It's God's great bloody plan, you see. To make us all suffer for our sins. And it's my past. I believe it's catching up with me.'

Mers-el-Kébir, near Oran in French Algeria. 3 July 1940. Less than two weeks after the armistice with the Germans.

The French fleet lay at anchor behind the harbour wall, in the shadow of the steep cliffs that ran along this section of the North African coast. As dawn broke, a British naval destroyer appeared on the horizon. She was under full steam. As she drew nearer, she signalled to the French: ‘A British Fleet is at sea off Oran waiting to welcome you.'

It proved to be a most imposing welcome. The fleet consisted of the battleships
Valiant
and
Resolution
, the aircraft carrier
Ark Royal
, two cruisers, eleven destroyers—and HMS
Hood.

They knew each other, the French and the British. The
Hood
and the French flagship
Dunkerque
had
sailed together as allies against the German fleet, and the British commander sent a message to his French counterpart, Admiral Gensoul, suggesting that they should continue to do so. He proposed that the French fleet should sail to a British port and continue the fight, or if that were not acceptable, the fleet should be handed over to the British so that they could continue the fight alone. Failing that, the British suggested, the fleet should be put out of commission so that it was unable to fight for anyone. But if none of these options were acceptable, the French were told, their fleet would be sunk.

The British fleet steamed to and fro across the bay, waiting for a reply. But it was several hours before Gensoul at last agreed to talk. A British officer arrived by motor boat, yet as he drew near the fleet he could see that tugs were standing by and control positions were being manned. The French were preparing to sail.

At 4.15 in the afternoon, the British officer, Captain Holland, was at last allowed on board the
Dunkerque
to meet with Gensoul. The French admiral explained, formally, coldly, that he took orders only from the French Government. Holland replied that the terms his own Government had offered were not negotiable.

All these events had been followed by Churchill from the Cabinet Room. He reached the conclusion that Gensoul was interested only in delay, and that
French submarines and air reinforcements were on their way. He gave orders that the matter was to be settled quickly.

At 5.15, while Gensoul was still talking with Holland, the British commander on HMS
Hood
sent a new signal to the French. He said that unless his terms were accepted within fifteen minutes, their fleet would be sunk.

Holland quit the
Dunkerque
five minutes before the deadline expired. He later wrote that Gensoul had bidden him a most courteous farewell, and that as he sailed past the battleship
Bretagne
, the officer of the watch had come to attention and honoured him with a stylish salute.

At 5.29, a minute before the deadline, Gensoul signalled that he could not accept the British terms. However, he declared he would be willing to sail his fleet to the USA. He must have known it was a hopeless gesture.

Twenty-three minutes later, the British fleet opened fire. The first salvo fell short, the second hit the harbour wall where some of the French ships were moored, scattering them with a fusillade of concrete that killed several crewmen. At the third attempt, the British shells found their mark. Direct hits. Within moments, the
Bretagne
disappeared in a sheet of flame.

The action lasted less than ten minutes. By the time the order was given to cease fire, the French
fleet lay in substantial ruins. The
Bretagne
was gone, the
Dunkerque
run aground, other ships broken and beached. The casualty list was enormous; more than a thousand French sailors died on the
Bretagne
alone.

One of them was the brother of Héloise.

It was his normal practice to leave them waiting. ‘We shall depart at three,' he would declare, then get distracted, which meant he wouldn't rush through the garden of Downing Street to his waiting car until several hours later. Yet today was not as normal. He couldn't wait to leave.

‘Now, now! We're off!' he cried, grabbing his hat and stick and diving for the door, leaving his servants and assistants clutching frantically for coats, papers, luggage and all the other paraphernalia required of a weekend at Chequers. The heat remained blistering, yet they knew they wouldn't be given a moment to relax.

Their route led them up through Notting Hill and past White City as they headed west. He wasted no time; beside him sat a secretary, notebook balanced precariously on her knee, scribbling hard, clutching the case for his reading glasses in her spare hand, her foot perched on his precious box to keep it from slamming shut as the car sped round every corner. All the while the bell of the police escort rang out, demanding more haste.

The convoy did not proceed directly to Chequers but swung into the entrance of the airfield at Northolt. The ensign hung limply from the flagpole yet everything else seemed as crisp as starched linen—so different from three weeks earlier when Churchill had arrived unannounced. It had been a shambles. ‘We weren't expecting you, sir,' the hapless station commander had wailed. ‘You didn't tell us you were coming.'

‘Neither will Hitler!'

It seemed to have had its effect. Today the security barrier was down, the cars forced to halt, the sentry demanding sight of the Prime Minister. Even the grass verges were freshly trimmed. A plume of blue cigar smoke swirled into the afternoon air as Churchill wound down his window. The guard bent low to peer inside.

‘Welcome back, sir,' he said, snapping to attention. ‘And good luck.'

‘With what, Corporal?'

‘Bloody everything, sir.'

‘You and I, we'll beat the buggers yet, eh?' he cried, waving as the car sped on.

His mood was irrepressible. The last few weeks had brought him little but dejection, yet it was his special gift that from somewhere deep inside he always seemed able to find the spark to re-ignite his energies. Some said it was simple stubbornness, others overweening ambition, friends said it derived
from a sense of destiny, and certainly there was more than a touch of arrogance; he often left behind him the impression that he was the only man in the room—and perhaps the entire kingdom—who was fighting this war. His reactions were predictable only in the fact that no one could ever take him for granted. Forty minutes later, when Harriman's plane landed on the tarmac, the Prime Minister was nowhere to be seen.

They found him in the sergeants' mess, surrounded by eager faces and fragments of Messerschmitt, drinking coffee laced with whisky and telling a vulgar joke.

When he saw Harriman he bounced immediately to his feet. ‘Gentlemen,' he said, ‘this is my friend, Mr Harriman. He is American. He has just returned from a mission to the Middle East—the first of many of his countrymen who will soon be at the sharp end of our war.'

“Bout bloomin' time, too,' a voice spoke up from the pack.

‘You might well say that, sergeant. And I shall let you into a little secret,' Churchill declared, banging the table with the palm of his hand. ‘Your views entirely coincide with my own.'

They stamped on the floor as he left, shouting out their approval until the whole hut shook. He turned as he reached the door, and there were tears in his eyes.

‘Gentlemen, when I think of what we have achieved over the last year—and what, alongside our American allies, we shall achieve in the next—I know that we shall win. We're going to beat the bastards, the whole bloody lot of ‘em!' he told them, waving his stick. And he could still hear their cheers when he was many yards away.