Churchill's Hour (6 page)

‘Sawyers! Where are you, man?' he shouted. ‘Stop hiding and help. Some idiot has poured cement all over my shoes.'

They sat in a small sitting room that was cold and bleak. The curtains were dusty, the windows taped over, some of them cracked, but Churchill still preferred to spend his daylight hours here in 10 Downing Street than entombed in the underground bunker at the nearby Annexe. It was a small reminder of how things used to be.

The American was beginning to warm up and Sawyers hovered attentively, ready to refill his glass. Shy and uncertain as Winant sometimes looked, he was no fool. He had a long and distinguished public career behind him, much of it in New Hampshire, where he had been elected governor three times. They called it the Granite State; evidently they liked the quiet touch.

‘I welcome you to London, Gil, with all my heart. It's a pity that the medical condition of the President makes it so difficult for him to travel, but that makes your position here of even greater significance. I don't think it an exaggeration to say that a whole
world might depend upon it. It's one of my great sorrows that I have not yet met Mr Roosevelt, but, in you, I know I have a friend who will bring us together in thought as well as deed. You must be my mirror into his mind.'

The words struck Winant as strange because, of course, Churchill
had
met Roosevelt, many years before. The old man seemed to have forgotten, but Roosevelt hadn't. It had been 1918, at an official dinner in London. The occasion hadn't been an unqualified success; Churchill had been both voluble and a little vulgar, and when Roosevelt returned from the dinner he told his colleagues that Churchill was nothing less than ‘a stinker'. It was a story that Joe Kennedy had paddled all around Washington, and so keenly that Winant was surprised the old man hadn't been reminded of it. But then, given the nature of the story, it was perhaps no surprise at all.

‘I have very clear instructions, Prime Minister—forgive me: Winston,' the ambassador said as the valet poured more whisky. ‘The President has instructed me to tell you that we shall do everything within our power to help you win this war.'

‘That is more than I had dared hope—'

‘Short of declaring war ourselves, of course.'

‘Ah.' Churchill thrust his own glass towards Sawyers.

‘The Lend-Lease Bill will be through Congress in
a few days; you know the President's set to sign it. Soon we'll be able to send you all those tools you asked for to finish the job.'

The ambassador had intended the words as encouragement, but for a moment Churchill's expression suggested he'd just smashed his finger with a hammer.

‘You know, Winston, your broadcast came as a profound relief to many Americans. Ridiculous, I know, but there are still those who suspect you of wanting to find some means of getting us involved in another European shooting match.'

A gentle warning shot across the bow. There were many in the United States who still gave kitchen space to tittle-tattle that Churchill was bent on repeating the history of the last war, when a reluctant America had been dragged into the conflict three years after it had started as a result of the sinking of a number of ships by U-boats. The most notable loss had been the passenger ship
Lusitania.
More than a thousand souls had gone down with her, many of them American, and hundreds of thousands were to follow. Some blamed Churchill personally for this, suggesting he'd as good as arranged the U-boat attack in order to shame the United States out of its isolation. Many Americans still sat round their fires talking of the untrustworthy English.

Churchill stirred uneasily, eager to move on.
‘What of the Far East, Gil? It has been occupying my mind. We cannot rest content while Japan conducts a campaign of slaughter and genocide that is every bit the equal in savagery to Hitler's.'

‘But in China.'

‘Such savagery never knows its bounds. It will not confine itself to China. Where will it turn to next? To French Indo-China? To the Dutch East Indies? To our own colonies of Hong Kong and Singapore, even India? There are vast riches waiting for them there.'

‘Which is why, presumably, they are already colonies. And why the European powers would fight once more to retain them.' Winant seemed so much more composed face to face than in front of an audience. And he knew his master's mind. Churchill decided he would be a most effective ambassador, and was not a man he should underestimate.

‘I must tell you, Gil, in all seriousness, what I have written to the President.' Churchill turned to his glass, sipping, swirling, as though trying to wash away some foul taste, before staring at the American. ‘I told Mr Roosevelt that if the Japanese were to attack our Far Eastern possessions, we would not have the military capability to resist them. No matter what I might be forced to say in public to shore up the general morale, you and your President must be under no illusion. On our own, we could not win such a war.'

On their own, the British could not win…Little
wonder, Winant thought, that the old man was driven to drink.

‘That's why I have asked the President if he will send some part of the US Pacific Fleet to Singapore,' Churchill continued. ‘As a sign that an attack on British possessions will not be tolerated. No words, no great declaration, no threats, just a symbolic gesture that even the Japanese will understand. A few American ships in Singapore could prevent the outbreak of the most terrifying tempest across the whole of the Far East.'

‘I'm afraid the President can't agree to that, Winston,' Winant said quietly, as though the softness of his voice might in some way diminish the force he knew his words would have on Churchill.

‘But…' For the briefest of moments Churchill paused, buried beneath the weight of his disappointment. ‘My dear Gil, I'm not talking of a vast armada, only a few ships, even a couple of rust buckets would do, so long as they fly the Stars and Stripes…'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘It could prevent catastrophe—'

‘Our commitment is to Britain, not to its colonies. I think Mr Roosevelt would argue—and with considerable force—that it's not the job of the United States to steam around the world shoring up other people's empires. We don't like empire, no matter whose flag it flies.'

That was Roosevelt speaking. The President came
from a long line of radicals and revolutionaries; he loathed all empires and the British Empire as much as any—a kingdom of pigsticking and polo, he'd been heard to call it. There was no way he was going to shed American blood for that.

Churchill couldn't afford to be diverted. ‘But if the Japanese were to control the whole of the Far East they would become the most mighty power in the Pacific. Surely America could not tolerate that?'

‘The Pacific is even wider than the Atlantic, Winston—and one hell of a long way from the Hudson.'

‘In his State of the Union Address only a few weeks ago your President spoke of his ambition to lead the world from fear.'

‘And you know what he also said to me, Winston? That the most terrifying thing in the world is to be a leader who looks over his shoulder and finds no one there.' Winant leant forward from his armchair, as though trying to close the distance between them. ‘He hears you, Winston. But he also has to listen to the American people who are suspicious of everything to do with this war. You know, all the while Congress has been debating Lend-Lease, women have been marching outside carrying banners accusing the President of wanting to murder their sons. That hurt him, down deep. They even hanged his effigy. There's a lot of steam behind the no-war protests, Winston, they don't want any more
American boys to die in Europe or anywhere else. Their voices are powerful. And Mr Roosevelt has had to listen.'

‘Public opinion can be a most demanding mistress.' He did not mean it kindly.

And so they continued, the Englishman and the American, confronting each other, testing each other's ideas, trying to find common ground but discovering their ambitions were as far apart as the continents from which they came. Churchill rose to his feet, his passion too great to remain seated, and he stood by the pale light of the window, his hand on his brow. It was what he had feared. Roosevelt wouldn't move, not even an inch. He looked through the window and saw only disaster. If war broke out in the Far East, Britain would lose it, and the shockwaves of defeat would quite overturn Britain's little boat. It would be the end, but he dare not admit it.

‘What will you do?' Winant asked.

‘KBO, I suppose,' Churchill muttered, his jaw jutting forward. ‘Just KBO.'

Winant was taken aback, not knowing what to do or say and having no idea what the old man was talking about.

The moment was broken by the arrival in the room of a young woman. It was Sarah, Churchill's daughter, who had been visiting her mother. Winant rose, looking strangely like a schoolboy once more,
the composure of recent moments vanished as Churchill made the introduction. She was tall, elegant, with a broad, open forehead and Churchill's blue eyes.

‘Forgive the interruption, Papa,' she said, kissing his cheek, ‘I've come to say goodbye. May I see you at the weekend?'

‘You shall!' he said, dragging himself back from his broken dreams. ‘And Mr Winant here, too.' He turned to the American. ‘Gil, you will be our guest at Chequers. You are one of the family now.'

Winant stumbled in reply, wondering if he were being asked merely out of politeness and not wishing to intrude. Sarah rescued him, reaching out to touch his sleeve. ‘Papa won't take no for an answer,' she told him. ‘He never does.'

To Winant she seemed delicate, a little fragile, and desperately appealing. And then she was gone.

Sawyers was hovering at the door. Behind him a pair of generals and an air vice-marshal were impatiently waiting their turn. ‘Time for me to go, too,' Winant said. ‘You've work to do. A war to wage.'

Churchill stood and extended his hand. ‘I'm grateful for your candour, Gil. I know that's what the President wants, it's also what I want. No barriers between us, to hell with the diplomatic niceties. I pray we shall always be as straight with each other as brothers.'

Sawyers escorted the ambassador out. On the way
to the door he gave the American a potted history of the old house. He also pointed to some of the features that had been added more recently—reception rooms that were badly damaged, windows broken and blocked up, great holes in the ancient plaster on the ceiling.

‘In all honesty, Your Excellence, Number Ten's not exactly what yer might call a substantial house. George Downing was a bit of a bad ‘un, like. Built the street wi'out foundations.'

‘What happened to him?'

‘I believe he went to America, zur,' the valet replied, leading him through the hallway.

As the great black door opened, it revealed a day growing dark and starting to spit with rain. Sawyers produced the American's coat and hat, both of which had been given a stiff brushing.

‘Tell me, Sawyers, what does “KBO” mean?' the ambassador asked as Sawyers helped him shrug into his coat.

‘Begging your pardon?'

‘“KBO.” He kept muttering it.'

‘Ah, it's a military phrase, zur. From trenches in last war.'

‘Meaning?'

‘“Keep Buggering On.”'

‘Yes, of course it does,' the American said, smiling. ‘You must find your job fascinating, Sawyers.'

‘I do find it has its moments, zur.'

‘An important job, too.'

‘Nowt special.'

‘But you are with him from morning to night. You see everyone and everything, on the way in and on the way out. I guess that makes you more important than the Lord Chief Justice and the Minister of War put together. And much better informed.'

‘Sadly not.'

‘Oh, and why is that?'

‘'Cos I'm by way of being too pig ignorant to understand or remember owt that's said, zur.'

Winant looked nonplussed.

‘I'm quoting Mr Churchill, Your Excellence. Word fer word.'

Winant's eyes danced with amusement.

‘We're looking forward to seeing you at Chequers at weekend, zur,' the valet continued as the ambassador stood on the doorstep, inspecting the weather. ‘But you'll find it very English. Might I suggest that you put aside a particularly warm pair o' pyjamas for the occasion? The central heating in't up to what most American gentlemen seem to expect. I'm sure if Mr Roosevelt sends us any more American guests, we'll have to ask him to send a new boiler along wi' ‘em.'

The rain was growing heavier. The American pulled up his collar and scoured the sky. ‘Well, Sawyers, we'll see what we can do. Tanks, battleships,
bombers—and one new boiler. Lend-Lease at your service. Which reminds me, you will be getting another American soon, the man who's coming to run the whole Lend-Lease show. Harriman. Averell Harriman's his name.'

‘We look forward to meeting the gentleman. I'm sure he'll be given a right warm welcome by Mr Churchill and the entire family. Night, Your Excellence.'

As the door closed behind him the ambassador, hat clamped firmly to his head, disappeared into the rapidly fading light. As he hurried through the drizzle, he wondered if Hitler knew that Downing Street appeared to be defended by nothing more than one unarmed policeman and an uppity servant.

She found him seated in an armchair by the fire in the Hawtrey Room, with Nelson asleep on his lap. It was late, almost midnight.

She hadn't wanted to disturb him, but she knew of no one else who might understand, no one else who knew Randolph well enough—his recklessness, his passions, his appetites and ego, his moments as a little boy lost, all of which she had been able to tolerate and even welcome, until they had ended up smothering her in debt and left her bleeding on a bathroom floor.