Churchill's Hour (7 page)

He never turned her away, not like he did so many of the others. She seemed to occupy a special part in his world—so did Randolph, of course, but Pamela didn't shout at him. And while his own elder daughters seemed to have inherited the ‘Black Dog' of darkness that so often pursued him, Pamela was fun. Uninhibited. Almost a talisman. It wasn't simply marriage and the baby, but a link that stretched back through the mists of time. Pamela had been born in the manor house at Minterne Magna in Dorset, which three centuries earlier had belonged to the Churchill family. The first Sir Winston Churchill had been born and was buried there. Links that bound them together from long ago.

He was studying the contents of a buff-coloured box. It was his box of secrets, in which Menzies and his intelligence men sent him their most sensitive items—his ‘golden eggs', as he called them. She saw it and her heart sank. The papers came first. This was the wrong moment.

He looked up. She could see the rime of exhaustion clinging to his eyes before he returned to staring into the fire.

‘This morning, we shot a German spy,' he said, very softly. ‘Parachuted in. Fell badly. The constabulary picked him up in less than three hours. And in less than three months we sat him in a chair, bound his arms and then his eyes, and proceeded to snuff out his life.'

She was surprised to see tears glinting in the firelight.

‘He was born in the same year as Randolph.'

‘He was a spy, Papa.'

‘He was a brave young man.'

‘A German. An enemy.'

‘And shall we shoot them all?' He began stroking Nelson, staring into the fire. ‘When will it cease, Pamela? When shall we be able to return to the lives we once knew?'

‘Only when we have won.'

‘And, I fear, not even then.' He seemed to be in pain. For many moments he sat silently, hurting, his mind elsewhere, seeking comfort from the cat.

‘Every night, before I fall asleep, I place myself before a court martial,' he began again. ‘I force myself to stand trial, accuse myself of neglect. Have I done my duty? Have I done enough? Did all those men who died that day at my order give up their lives for sufficient reason, or did they die for nothing more than vanity?'

‘You know no man could do more.'

Churchill tapped the buff-coloured box. ‘Goebbels made a speech the other week. About me. I've just been reading it. Ever since Gallipoli, he said, Winston Churchill has spent a life wading through streams of English blood, defending a lifestyle that has outlived its time.'

‘He's a liar. The blood has been spilled by Germans, not by you.'

‘But perhaps he has a point, you see.' He held out his hand, summoning her close. She knelt at his feet.

‘The world in which I grew up and through which I have travelled all my life has outlived its time. My world is a world of Empire and Union Jacks, where the scarlet coat of the British soldier has stood proud and firm in every corner of the globe. Yet now…No matter what the outcome of this war, Pamela, that world is lost. The days of an atlas splashed in red, of emperors and adventure, of natives and majestic nabobs, they are all gone. Of another time.'

‘I don't understand, Papa.'

‘After this war is over, whoever holds the reins of authority, it will not be Britain. We are too small, too content, perhaps even too kind. You need an edge of ruthlessness to rule. So whose creed shall we find in the ascendant? Hitler and his fascism? Commissar Stalin and his Bolshevist crusade? Or America, perhaps, which worships before the altar of Mammon? Which would you choose, Pamela?'

‘Why, America,' she said uncertainly.

‘Better America, a thousand times better. Even though at times they totter around like blind men, especially when they set foot in other parts of the world. They don't understand that all men are not as they are. And even when they stumble over the
truth, they pick themselves up and carry on as if nothing has happened.'

‘But you have praised their generosity…'

‘Sometimes they are like gangsters.'

‘They have given us destroyers, Lend-Lease…'

‘In return for which they have taken all our gold and dollar reserves, demanded we give them military bases in every corner of the globe, and now their negotiators have started talking about handing over our art treasures and ancient manuscripts.' His chin fell to his chest. ‘The bonfire of glories that once was the British Empire belongs to an age that has passed. That wretched man Goebbels was right. And so, in his way, was Randolph.'

‘Randolph?'

‘When Mr Roosevelt announced Lend-Lease, he likened it to lending a neighbour a hose pipe when his house catches on fire. You don't quibble about its cost, so long as it's returned. But Randolph says it's more like offering a piece of used chewing gum, never expecting it to be returned.'

‘You act so warmly towards all the Americans…'

‘They are the New World, the young world. And I trust them as much as I would any seven-year-old. So we will douse them in flattery and humbuggery, and never give up hope that our American friends will find within themselves the will to fight the right war. But we can no longer rely on that.'

‘So what will you do?'

‘Do?' For a moment he seemed to be searching for an answer in the flames. ‘I shall do whatever it takes. I gave Randolph my word. So tonight, and every night, as I stand before my court martial, I shall have to show that I have done something to ensure that Mr Roosevelt has pitched his tent a little nearer the sound of gunfire.'

She stroked his balding head, trying to bring him comfort, as though he were a young child. ‘What can I do, Papa?'

His eyes found her. ‘Do what only you can do, Pamela. Give me grandchildren. Give our family and our world a future. Make this all worthwhile.' He kissed her hand. ‘What more can an old man ask?'

She had been right. This was not the time. She screamed, but only inside. He couldn't know, didn't deserve to be showered in the wretchedness that was welling up inside her. That would come later, when she was in bed, alone. He had so many other lives to care for; she would have to look after her own.

She left him staring into the embers of the dying fire.

Spring. New life. Daffodils. Crocus. Blossom. Warmer days. Death.

The bombers were back. The intermittent raids of winter had given way to a renewed onslaught that pounded London night after night.

Queues. Britain's way to win the war. Line after line of women waiting patiently for whatever was left. Hour after hour, without knowing what might be there when at last they came to the head of the queue, ration book in hand, coins in purse or pocket. The Ministry of Food had just announced five exhilarating new ways of serving potato—wartime ‘champ', hot potato salad, potato pastry, potato suet crust. ‘And save those orange rinds,' the official advertisement insisted. ‘Grate your orange peel and mix a little with mashed potatoes. The potatoes will turn an exciting pink colour!'

But would still be mashed potatoes.

Yet not everyone dined on pink mash. It was a foodstuff entirely unknown to Lady Emerald St
John. In truth, her name was not Emerald—she had been born a Maud, but she thought it common. She was not a ‘proper' lady, inasmuch as she was American and had married into the title, although she had parted from her husband many years previously, relieving him of not only his marital obligations but also a substantial chunk of his fortune. And, above all, Emerald was no saint. It was why people flocked to her dinner parties, always assured of entertainment, excitement, intrigue—and a little wickedness. Not sexual wickedness, Emerald had worn herself out on three husbands and was past most of that, but as the folds about her face had fallen to wrinkles, she compensated with a tongue that had developed the snagging capacity of a billhook. Sitting at one of her tables was like playing roulette with one's reputation. Someone would always walk away a little poorer.

Pamela arrived late, just as the others were preparing to sit down. The introductions were hurried and she wasn't concentrating; she'd squeezed in a couple of drinks on the way. But there was a Japanese gentleman, whom people addressed as ‘Your Excellency', identifying him as the ambassador, Mamoru Shigemitsu. He seemed lost in conversation with his American counterpart, Winant, whom she recognized, and another man whom she did not, American by the cut of his clothes, tall, middle-aged, yet still athletic in build.
The party was completed by two parliamentarians and their wives, a Free French naval officer and two young French women, but all eyes seemed to be on Shigemitsu.

The Japanese was small in physique and most earnest in his expression, polite, but persistent, and very defensive. That was no surprise. He had arrived at the Court of St James's three years earlier, and with every passing season his task had grown more difficult. Japan was at war with China. It was not a popular war. The newspapers were filled with countless headlines about Japanese brutality, accompanied by disgracefully provocative photographs. Not that the British could tell the difference between a Chinese or Japanese, of course. They even delighted in their ignorance. As much as Shigemitsu tried to reassure his audiences that Japan had no intention of attacking British possessions, not a soul believed him. Yet still he did his best.

‘Japanese believe in Hakko-Ichiu,' he said.

‘How fascinating, Your Excellency,' the diminutive Lady St John purred across a forkful of fish. ‘What exactly does it mean?'

‘It means “all the world one family”. At peace.'

‘How beautiful. It's a religious idea, is it? That when we've all finished being beastly to each other on this earth, we go to the same heaven?'

‘No, no,' Shigemitsu protested. ‘Peace on this earth. All one family. On this earth.'

‘Oh, I see. I'm so relieved. There are so many rumours that Japan wants to attack us in the Far East. Tell me, Your Excellency, that's not going to happen, is it?'

‘Japanese wish British people nothing but harmony,' the Japanese responded, picking over his words as though he had a mouthful of bones.

‘And the Chinese?'

Shigemitsu swallowed his trout unchewed. He examined his plate, not wishing to catch Lady St John's eye for fear of betraying his annoyance. Her bluntness was ill-mannered; was she female and stupid, or simply Western and therefore incorrigibly rude?

‘Our only wish is to create what we call a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.'

‘Ah, so that's what you are doing in China. Trying to make them all prosperous. Now I understand.'

The ambassador laid down his knife and fork. Of course she didn't understand, and the silly woman was probably incapable of doing so, but it was his duty to try to bring her to some form of awareness.

‘The European powers—French, Dutch, British—have many colonies in Asia. Control all oil and other raw materials. We consider the position…unbalanced.' He gave a little bow, as if to indicate that he was entirely satisfied with his selection of the word. ‘Japan wants only similar influence in our own
continent. Access to raw materials in Asia like Britain—even America.'

He made it sound so reasonable, but he had unwittingly opened up a new flank. The unknown American took it as an invitation to join in.

‘And you make war in order to get them,' he stated.

The ambassador's colour darkened. ‘We do not want war. War would not continue if Britain and America did not keep sending weapons to China along the Burma Road. My government believes that is very unfriendly act.'

‘More than ten million dead Chinese since the war started four years ago, most of them civilians. Three hundred thousand killed in Nanking in a single winter. If you want to talk about unfriendly acts, maybe we should start with that.'

‘Perhaps, sir, and begging your pardon'—he gave another little bow—‘you are not aware of the full facts of war.'

‘I guess you're right, Mr Ambassador. I don't know enough about war. But since I arrived in London a few days ago, I'm beginning to catch on fast.'

‘Perhaps, sir, you will permit me to suggest that you discuss the matter with your European friends, who have been fighting colonial wars for hundreds of years. They might be able to hasten your understanding.'

There was another little bob, like a karate chop.

‘Mr Ambassador,' the American said, refusing to use the honorific title of ‘Excellency', ‘Americans hate all colonial wars. Which is why we insist on the right to continue sending supplies to China.'

‘You will forgive me, sir, if I see American history in a slightly different colour. I believe—I ask you to correct me if this is not true—that your country purchased the entire territory of Louisiana from the French.'

‘Not the same thing at all. Louisiana isn't a colony, it was a natural extension of the United States.'

‘A very understandable argument, sir. And it was certainly closer to the United States than Alaska, which I believe you purchased later.'

‘The territory of Alaska was practically empty. Full of nothing but fish and ice. I think there were maybe four hundred Russians living there.'

‘Unlike the islands of the Philippines, which you fought for. Forty years ago. You will please forgive me if that is an inconvenient or inaccurate fact. Or the islands of Hawaii. I believe the United States annexed them at about the same time.'

Damn, but he was good. Lady St John beamed. She hadn't had this much fun since she had plied the then-German Ambassador, von Ribbentrop, with his own champagne and asked him to expound upon his feelings about Jews.

‘I will grant you, Mr Ambassador, that history has a stubborn streak,' the American responded. ‘It
doesn't form itself into convenient straight lines. And the United States, like all nations, has a history that allows for questioning and criticism.' The American seemed to be conceding, perhaps aware that the Japanese was preparing to chase him fully around the globe via Guam, Puerto Rico, Cuba and several other colonial contradictions. ‘But I am not concerned with history, sir. I am talking about today. And tomorrow. And the slaughter of tens of millions of innocent civilians. Whatever the cause, whatever the grievance, whatever the injustice for which redemption is sought, nothing can support such a cost.'

‘It is most unfortunate that today warfare carries with it such a terrible price.'

‘Which is why the United States has declared it will never become a combatant in this one.'

‘It is a most happy situation for your United States,' the ambassador said with a smile of steel, ‘that, unlike every other nation represented around this table, you have not become involved in war. For my part, I pray most earnestly that your good fortune will continue, and that you will remain free from the curse of war.'

‘Hell, we don't pick fights, Mr Ambassador. We finish 'em.'

It was, in Lady St John's view, a most glorious cockfight, but it had gone far enough, for the moment. There were three other courses to get through; something had to be kept in reserve.

‘Would you like some more, Your Excellency? Or have you had enough?'

‘More than enough. Thank you, Lady St John.' He bowed, which allowed him to break eye contact with the American.

‘I don't know much about English manners, Lady St John, but if it's not being impolite, I'd love some more,' the American said, without waiting to be asked. He'd be damned before he followed Shigemitsu. ‘It's what the workers on my railroad would call “damned fine chow”.' He paused only momentarily. ‘I guess that's the Chinese influence, eh?'

And suddenly the table was alight with a multitude of different conversations. Pamela, who had been as transfixed as Emerald at the outpouring of male hormones, was seated between the American and his ambassador. They were both tall and dark, middle-aged, with fine eyes, but there the resemblance finished. Winant was uncombed, uncertain and largely inaudible at such occasions, whereas the other man most evidently was not. And he seemed to own a railway. She placed a hand gently on his sleeve.

‘Forgive me, but I didn't catch your name.'

‘It's Averell Harriman.' He smiled, a little stiffly. He gazed down at her; she knew he was struggling to keep his eyes steady. It was her dress. She'd lost almost all the weight she had gained while pregnant,
but a couple of additional inches had clung to her breasts and, in this dress, they showed.

‘I'm Pamela Churchill.'

‘I know you are. I've already met your father-in-law. He says we must all become good friends.'

‘I hope you're going to do everything he tells you.'

Harriman laughed. ‘That's pretty much my job description. I've been put in charge of the Lend-Lease operation. The President has told me to come over here and give you everything you want.'

‘Like Santa Claus.'

‘Something like that.'

‘In which case, I can promise you, we shall become very good friends indeed.'

And suddenly there was laughter around the table, except from Shigemitsu.

Later, he was the first to leave. Lady St John led him to the door.

‘Your Excellency, it's been such a pleasure having you with us. And particularly for me. May I let you in on a little secret? It's wonderful to be with guests of—how shall I put this?—of a similar stature. We little people should stick together, don't you think?'

He gave a stiff bow, and left. He did not think he would ever return.

In reasonably rapid succession, the hallways of Chequers echoed to the sound of bath waters
parting, heavy male footsteps, a female scream and the crashing of a tray laden with crockery.

‘Who the hell are you?' Churchill said, making puddles on the hallway carpet and trying to rearrange his towel with more discretion.

‘Héloise. I am Héloise,' the young woman responded in a heavy accent, her eyes filled with horror.

‘And what the hell are you?'

‘I am the new maid.' She was struggling to avert her eyes.

‘New maid. What new bloody maid?'

‘The new maid we agreed on, Mr Churchill.' It was Sawyers, who had appeared as if on wings in response to the sounds of mayhem.

‘I told you we didn't need one. Look at the mess she's made.'

‘Well, if it's to be a race to see who can ruin rug first, I suspect you're in wi' a pretty good chance yerself, zur,' the valet replied, indicating the sodden carpet. ‘Suppose I'd better do introductions. This is Héloise. Cousin to Mrs Landemare's husband. From Marseilles,'—his accent and lisp made a mockery of the name—‘before joining us here. And a very dangerous escape it were, too, so cook's been telling me.'

The girl gave a nervous bob.

‘And this,' Sawyers added, turning and raising his eyebrow as though in disbelief, ‘is the Prime Minister.'

‘
Je suis
Churchill,' the Prime Minister growled in his execrable accent. ‘I don't like new faces. And I don't like people who go round dropping trays and making a racket. If you're going to make a habit of it, you'd better stay out of my way downstairs.'

Héloise promptly burst into tears and fled. Churchill was left feeling very damp and a trifle silly.

‘And tell her I prefer my eggs scrambled,' he said, stepping round the mess on the floor.

It was the twentieth of March. Pamela's twenty-first birthday.

She spent it without any form of communication from Randolph.

She sat in the rented rectory that had meant so much to her, yet which now stared back at her like a stranger. Once it had seemed to catch every shaft of sunlight, but now it collected only draughts and dust. She thought of the many nights she had burrowed beneath the blankets, hugging a favourite bear and pretending it was Randy creeping into the bedroom rather than several degrees of frost, but those days were gone. She was twenty-one. Her first day as a legal adult. Old enough to vote. And utterly miserable.

She ate her dinner alone in the kitchen, growing a little drunk as she dismantled one of Randolph's prize bottles of vintage champagne. It was part of a
consignment he'd been given as a wedding present by one of his chums from White's. As she drank from a glass of the finest crystal, his photograph stared at her in reproach from its ornate silver frame—another present. She was surrounded by luxury in a house where even the mice could no longer afford to eat.