This was not the only response of its kind. ‘Mr. Winston Churchill may have faults as great as his talents,’ remarked the weekly Saturday Review, ‘but at least he has courage [and] . . . often shows the instinct of real leadership . . . when he speaks he is apt to speak out, and with the precision and authority of a keen and genuinely independent mind. Courage and the instinct of leadership and the habit of straight and sensible talk are valuable qualities at any time; they are invaluable now.’ The periodical Outlook, another weekly, raised his stature even higher. ‘Signs of incipient statesmanship are not readily to be discerned in most of our rulers. I have observed several of late in Mr. Winston Churchill,’ declared an anonymous contributor. ‘The symptoms are so pronounced that were I an ambitious young backbencher I would hitch my wagon to the star of the Colonial Secretary, a star that once seemed to be waning to telescopic dimensions, but of late has rapidly waxed from the third to the second magnitude and, in my opinion, will go on waxing. Winston seems to be the only man in the Cabinet with a sane and comprehensive view of world politics.’11
These were remarkable words that broke radically with conventional opinion. Who, since the Dardanelles, had uttered the words ‘statesmanship’ and ‘Churchill’ in the same breath? Who could imagine that an ambitious young politician would now wish to hitch their wagon to Churchill’s star? Even more remarkable was that Outlook traditionally supported the Conservatives, who had long loathed him as a traitor to their cause. Here was an intriguing straw in the wind hinting at major tremors in the political world. Such changes were also picked up by two other observers. Both were journalists with a keen eye for the shifting tide of parliamentary affairs. One was the journalist Herbert Sidebotham, The Times’ accredited observer in the House of Commons’ press gallery and a former leader writer and military correspondent for the Manchester Guardian. Often he had gazed down on Churchill leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, busily making paper triangles and twirling them round furiously on his thumbs as he listened intently to the proceedings. This autumn a series of his sketches written for The Times appeared under the title Pillars of the State. One of them was devoted to Churchill, whom he painted as indispensable to a Coalition starved of able men: highly intelligent, conscientious, hardworking – and one of its best debaters. ‘He can create an atmosphere, he is a master of dangerous retort, and always,’ claimed Sidebotham, ‘there is the sense of power and mastery.’ Above all, however, he made clear that he considered that Churchill’s future still lay ahead of him. Should the Coalition turn towards the left, he predicted, Churchill, one day, would become a ‘leader of a new Tory Party with ideas’.12
A similar instinct inspired T. P. O’Connor. As the nights lengthened in London, in late October the veteran MP and journalist drew attention to ‘fitful stirrings in the political world that seem to point dimly but decisively towards new developments’. This was inevitable given the discordant elements within the Coalition, but it was unlikely that Lloyd George would be challenged until after he had settled the Irish question. Yet no one could know what tomorrow would bring. After all, pointed out O’Connor, one of the most extraordinary and unpredicted transformations had just taken place in journalism – the sudden devotion of the Tory-supporting Morning Post to Winston Churchill. ‘It is known that for years there was no public man for whom [it] had so violent, ruthless, and unremitting hatred as Mr. Churchill,’ he noted. Yet it had recently changed tack and appealed to him to come to the rescue of the Tories. ‘It is easy to forecast where Winston would like to lead,’ wrote the veteran and good-natured Irishman. ‘Like his father before him he is the ideal leader for a Tory Democratic Party: with more daring even than his father, more education, more energy, and more concentration.’13
Churchill was of course delighted with all the publicity. So much so that it put him in the mood to respond with typically wry humour to another congratulatory letter, this one from his sometime friend, Lord Curzon. ‘Thank you so much for your kind remarks about my speech,’ he told the Foreign Secretary. ‘The essence of statesmanship is platitude.’ Such self-deprecating false modesty demonstrated that he clearly sensed that his political fortunes were taking a significant turn for the better.14
*
Churchill returned from Dundee distressed by the misery he had seen and troubled by its political dangers. Across the country unemployment remained high with no ready solution in sight. His public rhetoric was fiercely anti-socialist. Yet behind closed Cabinet doors he took a more liberal stance on social issues than most of his colleagues. He had argued strongly for a tax on war wealth – the amount by which personal wealth had increased between 1914 and 1918 – and over the summer had strongly resisted abandonment of the government’s housing programme to appease the ‘anti-waste’ movement. This had hit especially hard in his own constituency. At the start of the housing scheme in 1919 the Dundee Council had estimated that the city needed 6,000 new houses to relieve the famine in working-class housing and clear the slums. Since then, it had bought land, streets had been laid out, and gas, water, and electricity mains installed, all at a cost of some £200,000. Even this was only a fraction of what was needed. Now, it had all come to a crashing halt. In July he had pointed out the irony in a protest to his Cabinet colleagues; in the name of ‘anti-waste’, the heavy capital expenditure by Dundee had been rendered unproductive and the cause of a substantial annual deficit in the city’s budget. ‘I need scarcely say that I shall find it a matter of very great difficulty to offer any satisfactory explanation to the City Council of the violent reversal of policy in which we have been led,’ he protested.15
Since then, austerity had tightened further after Sir Robert Horne, his personal nemesis as Chancellor of the Exchequer, successfully proposed the creation of an independent committee under the Minister of Transport, Sir Eric Geddes, to make recommendations for major cutbacks in national expenditure. He both opposed this and insisted that his dissent be officially recorded in the Cabinet minutes. The Committee was formed of axe-wielding business tycoons and one of them, the shipping magnate Lord Inchcape, quickly targeted ‘worthless spending on schools and houses’. Churchill was angered by this sabotage of the Coalition’s social programme, and during a vigorous discussion between ministers at Gairloch he lamented that the country was ‘being sacrificed upon the altar of the banks’.16
In London he repeated his complaint. ‘Should our policy remain the austere bankers’ policy?’ he pointedly asked the Cabinet. ‘It is not possible for a civilized State with a large portion of its members living in luxury and the great bulk of its members living in comfort to leave a proportion of its citizens with neither work nor maintenance.’ To Lloyd George personally, he bluntly declared that it would be useless for him to pretend that he admired ‘our post-war policy in several important aspects. The first and greatest mistake,’ he stated, ‘was leaving the profiteers in possession of their ill-gotten war wealth.’ As for the government’s wider monetary and financial policy, he believed that the Coalition was ‘drifting about in a fog without a compass’. Inside him there clearly struggled remnants of the youthful radical Liberal who had once promised a Glasgow audience that ‘the cause of the Liberal Party is the cause of the left-out millions’.17
All seemed set for yet another major row with Lloyd George. But in October his course suddenly changed tack. For the rest of the year his political energies were to be almost fully devoted to Ireland.
SIXTEEN
THE COMFORT OF FRIENDS
Back in London after the summer break, the Churchills sought to find comfort for their summer griefs by resuming their busy social life as normal. Friends were only too ready to help, and early in October Ettie Desborough invited them again to Taplow. It was exactly a year since she had been at Cassis enjoying their company in the warmth of Provence. ‘Clemmie is so delicious to be with, so easy & happy,’ she had noted. ‘Winston’s spirits and joie-de-vivre & the fun-per-minute that he puts into life are quite indescr
ibable – and his absorption in his pictures (really very good) keeps him utterly happy from 7a.m. till bed-time.’ The mood was more sombre now, and he spent most of his time painting quietly in the company of John Lavery.1 A week later, with Clementine incapacitated by an ingrowing toenail, he bundled Diana and Sarah into a car along with his painting gear and thanks to an invitation from Sir Ian and Lady Hamilton drove down to Lullenden. It was blazing hot. Southern England was suffering a record heatwave and temperatures in central London were the highest in more than eighty years. He spent hours outdoors painting a picture of Lullenden’s barn and the contrasting effects of light and shade that he had learned on the Riviera. He also took along his painting of the Spears’ house at Ightham Moat that Lady Hamilton had bought for £50, and together they chose a spot to hang it in the dining room. Now, she was no longer sure that she liked it and wished instead that she had bought one of Cap Ferrat, but he assured her that he thought it one of his best. Meanwhile, his daughters eagerly explored the house they knew so well and pronounced their approval for the additions made by their hosts. Left unspoken between them all was any mention of Marigold. But when Churchill’s eye lit upon the Hamiltons’ recently adopted daughter, Lady Jean thought she detected a shadow flit briefly across his face.2
Another weekend took them again to Breccles to stay with Edwin and Venetia Montagu. The Saturday was Guy Fawkes Night, perfect weather with russet brown leaves on the trees and a hint of frost in the air. They arrived late and missed the fireworks display, but as usual his appearance rapidly lit things up and sparked a fiery discussion about politics. Duff Cooper was also there with his wife Diana. ‘We drank a lot and argued heatedly,’ he wrote in his diary. ‘Winston doesn’t get drunk but takes a great deal.’3
Hazel and John Lavery continued to be close friends of the Churchills. They had spent part of the summer playing golf and painting in North Berwick on the Firth of Forth. Hazel was a painter in her own right and since returning to London the couple had been adding a second studio to their Cromwell Road house. In October the Alpine Gallery in the West End opened a show of Sir John’s landscapes from his Riviera trip as well as some of Hazel’s portraits, including one of Clementine, one of Philip Sassoon’s sister Lady Rocksavage, and another of herself taking an early morning cup of tea in her bed. The private viewing was a glittering event that stretched over two days and attracted the cream of London society. There was also a handsomely produced catalogue with a foreword by Churchill. As a companion and eyewitness, he was well able to capture the spirit of his teacher’s plein-air technique. ‘No painter has coped so successfully with the difficulties of this method,’ he wrote in praise of Lavery’s use of the ‘pellucid and pleasurable’ light of the Riviera. ‘His practicability made it child’s play to transport easel and extensive canvas to the chosen scene to stabilize them against sudden gusts of wind, to protect them from the caprice of rain. In consequence,’ he added, ‘there is a freshness and a natural glow about these pictures which gives them unusual charm.’ The experience, as well as the skill, was also obviously his own.
But the actual words were not. They had been crafted by Eddie Marsh. Besides his literary pursuits, Churchill’s private secretary was a distinguished art connoisseur and patron of the arts. Thanks to a family inheritance he had been buying paintings by young and upcoming English artists such as Stanley Spencer, Mark Gertler, and the brothers John and Paul Nash, and by now was the owner of one of the most valuable collections of modern works in private hands. That the unmarried Eddie was gay and part of a large homosexual community in London was little secret, although with male homosexuality still illegal in Britain the fact was left discreetly unspoken. It certainly bothered Clementine and Winston not at all, and spoke well for the latter’s tolerance when it came to the private lives of his friends.4
As he scanned Marsh’s draft, he removed some of the more arcane art-historical references and added a sentence or two of his own. One, revealing of his own approach to the canvas, highlighted Lavery’s use of ‘brilliant and beautiful colour’. The foreword prompted some gentle mockery in the press. ‘Mr. Winston Churchill, as the world knows, paints pictures,’ The Times reminded its readers, and regretted that some of his own were not in the show. ‘Did he not paint the Pyramids some months ago,’ it enquired ironically, ‘at a time when he might otherwise have been painting a portrait of himself as Chancellor of the Exchequer?’ – a pointed reminder, as if he needed it, of the issue that still rankled deeply. Yet he can only have been pleased to have such a spotlight shone on his efforts as an art critic. Shortly afterwards, the New English Art Club invited him to submit one or two of his paintings for a forthcoming exhibition, either under his own name or a nom de brosse (artist’s pseudonym). The Club had been founded some thirty years previously by artists who had fallen under the spell of Impressionism, as he so obviously had himself.
If close friends such as the Laverys, Desboroughs, and Montagus provided much-needed comfort, so too did his broader network of friends. Like most men of his class, generation, and profession, he already belonged to a club, indeed to many, that catered to the capital’s elite: The Turf, The Bath, the Royal Automobile, the National Liberal, and the Athenaeum all counted him as a member. But before the war he had also created one of his own crafted to his individual taste. Along with Lloyd George, F. E. and others, he had established The Other Club, a dining group that met at the Savoy Hotel on the Strand for dinner at 8.15 prompt every other Thursday while Parliament was sitting. This was now a fixed date in his social calendar. With its regular meetings and familiar faces, it provided a reassuring reminder that in the face of his personal grief the world still revolved on its familiar axis.
The Other Club’s members were restricted to fifty in number divided equally between parliamentarians from both major parties and a selection of men (all members were male) from the worlds of the arts, literature, entertainment, and the press. He could regularly count on seeing such friendly faces at the table as those of Lord (George) Riddell and Jim Garvin from the world of journalism, as well as fellow politicians of different colours such as the fiery-tempered Irish peer Lord Winterton – frequently a political thorn in his side on Irish questions – and the MP Dudley Ward. Eddie Marsh and Archie Sinclair were also members. One of its earliest recruits was Anthony Hope, the author and staunch Liberal whose 1894 best-selling novel of Ruritanian derring-do, The Prisoner of Zenda, had inspired his own single venture into fiction with his novel Savrola, a Byronic romance in which the hero is a barely disguised portrait of himself, at least as he had liked to imagine it in his mid-twenties. Hope was a keen attendee, liked Churchill, and believed his exploits at Antwerp had been ‘really splendid’. The club has been described as ‘the most enduring monument to the F. E.-Winston friendship’, a description that does a slight injustice to the significant inaugural role played by Lloyd George, but is broadly true. Churchill along with Birkenhead was clearly the animating force, and by 1921 the club’s day-to-day running was largely in the hands of his cousin Freddie.5
Churchill also kept his pen busy this autumn by working assiduously on The World Crisis. In early November he sent the first three chapters of Volume One to his publisher Thornton Butterworth, requesting they be set up in galley proofs and estimated that the final text would be 100,000 words long, plus thirty or forty pages of appendices. He liked to have galley proofs in front of him so he could work on improving his text and send them out for comments and critiques to friends and experts. It was an expensive way to work, as each new set of proofs had to be set and reset, but it was one that he always followed.6
*
Parliament resumed sitting in mid-October. As the autumn nights drew in, his social calendar included dinners alongside Philip Sassoon at Eresby House with the Earl and Countess of Ancaster, and at the Laverys with Duff and Diana Cooper. Towards the end of November he and Clementine were also guests at a dinner at the Hyde Park Hotel hosted by Lord and Lady Beaverbrook.
The owner of the Daily Express and Sunday Express had met him before the war when he was simply Max Aitken, a newly arrived business tycoon from Canada, and had been dazzled by his brilliance. Given a peerage by Lloyd George for his wartime services – but still known as Max by his friends – the millionaire press lord knew the value of the carefully chosen gift. Over the summer he had sent Churchill the latest volume of the Dictionary of National Biography, an essential item for any writer’s library. ‘Believe me, dear Max,’ he responded, ‘I value much more the spirit of regard of which it is a token. I think our friendship is not only very pleasant, but fruitful both in council and in action . . . I never forget,’ he added with genuine feeling, ‘the encouragement and help you gave me in 1916 [over Gallipoli] when I had such distracting political and personal issues to cope with.’
Other familiar faces greeted him around the table. Beaverbrook liked to entertain and preferred a round table to a long one to encourage conversation and also did away with the dismal English custom of dismissing females from the table after meals. Birkenhead was there with his wife, and so were Edwin and Venetia Montagu, as well as the ubiquitous Philip Sassoon. A much younger couple in their late twenties were also present. The Honourable Richard Norton was the son and heir to the fifth Lord Grantley. A captain in the Scots Guards with a penchant for fast cars, he had been wounded during the war and ahead of him beckoned a career in merchant banking and film production. His wife Jean was the daughter of a Scottish baronet and Brigadier-General and as a society beauty she was part of the Prince of Wales’ glamorous social set. Prince Louis Mountbatten was godfather to their one-year-old daughter. Beaverbrook was an unashamed philanderer and shortly afterwards took Norton’s wife as his mistress and she became his constant companion at social events until her death in 1945. Towards the extra-marital affairs of his close friends Churchill was as open-minded as he was to homosexuality. Here he differed from Clementine, who strongly disapproved of adultery. She already disliked Beaverbrook and Birkenhead – both Conservatives – for the political influence she feared they had on her husband. Their sexual misdemeanours only made matters worse. Once, when she learned that Winston had invited Beaverbrook for a lunch party, she wrote him a sharp letter of admonition. ‘Please do not allow any very low conversation before the Children. I don’t necessarily mean “improper”, but Lord B does manage to defile any subject he touches, & I hope the relationship between him & Mrs. Norton will not be apparent to Randolph and Diana’s inquisitive marmoset-like eyes and ears.’ It was no wonder that, more than once, she begged her husband to lock up or burn her letters.7
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