Lady Clementine

by Marie Benedict

  I turn toward him and respond in an unwavering voice, “I have every intention of staying for the entirety of my shift. I must fulfill my duty.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  December 12–13, 1940

  London, England

  Winston raises his glass of Pol Roger, a scarcity in wartime and hoarded specifically for special occasions, in toast. “To France.” He clinks glasses with General Charles de Gaulle who, the day after Premier Reynaud’s resignation in June, had flown to England in a British plane. With the collapse of France and the subsequent establishment of the pro-Nazi Vichy government, this man, the only member of the French government publicly willing to continue the fight against the Nazis, is the representative of Free France. Even with his limited power, we need him; we are otherwise alone in this conflict.

  The general touches his glass to Winston’s. The chime of crystal rings out over the Downing Street white dining room, and for a moment, with the golden champagne sparkling in the candlelight and crispy Cornish hens on the white bone china, it almost feels like peacetime.

  “To Free France,” the general, nostrils flaring, corrects Winston, who nods in apology and gulps the champagne down greedily. He’s missed his favorite indulgence.

  “Madame, I could not forget to toast you,” de Gaulle says and touches his glass to mine.

  While the Free French will continue to work with us against the Nazis, unfortunately, those French soldiers and sailors who did not defect must be treated as enemies, as they are aiding in the Nazi cause. As a result, shortly after France fell, Winston had to order the Royal Navy to destroy the French fleet anchored at Oran in North Africa so it would not fall into the Nazi’s hands. It was a decision that troubled Winston terribly, particularly when he received reports that thirteen hundred men had died. But he couldn’t allow such a powerful weapon to be wielded by the Nazis; Britain might never have recovered.

  “Here’s to the Free French fleet’s support of the British.” I raise my glass in my own toast.

  Instead of chinking his glass with ours, the mustachioed de Gaulle places his crystal champagne flute down on the table. In a tone that quickly transforms from hospitable to hostile, he says, “Madame, it may be that many French would prefer to fight the British—with whom they’ve often been rivals—than the Germans.” His narrow face pinches tighter together as he glares at Winston, adding, “Particularly after North Africa.”

  I am aghast. While I understand his dismay at the deaths in Oran, his comment is utterly unacceptable; he understands better than almost anyone how necessary—and hard—the decision was for Winston. We have harbored him in our country, facing the heightened wrath of the Nazis for our sins, and given him support for whatever endeavor he wants to pursue against our common enemy. How dare he lash out at us instead of his true adversary, the Nazis!

  I glance over at Winston, who sits silently, nursing his Pol Roger. I am shocked at his quiet, but as I study Winston and wonder about his muted reaction, I’m reminded of a recent disagreement in which he’d exhibited similar behavior. We had learned that his brother Jack’s son was planning on sending his own daughter off to Canada, despite the fact that we’d asked our immediate and extended family to stay in the country unless their war work took them outside it. We had explained that it was critical for the country’s morale to see that the prime minister’s family had every confidence that we would ultimately be victorious. But when we discovered his nephew’s plan, who himself was stationed in Dunkirk as a corps camouflage officer, Winston hadn’t wanted to intervene or utter a remonstrance—not unlike now when faced with de Gaulle’s incendiary proclamation. Even after all these years, I sometimes find Winston’s actions perplexing and frustrating.

  “How can we ask the people of Britain to bear up and fight but allow our own family members to escape?” I asked Winston then in a voice that sounded surprisingly calm to my ears. It belied the rage I felt mounting within me. How could Winston be so harsh and demanding with his staff but so yielding with his own family?

  “Clemmie, the girl is five years old. Don’t you think your position is a bit on the harsh side?” Winston said.

  I almost laughed at the irony of my husband—notorious for his own harsh outbursts—suggesting that I was being unyielding, particularly when he has publicly demanded that the British citizens never surrender. Only this was no laughing matter.

  “Harsh? You didn’t think it was harsh when we insisted that Diana keep her children in England, and her youngest is not quite two years old. How can it be harsh to stop your brother’s son Johnny from shipping his five-year-old daughter off to Canada?”

  “But you have surreptitiously intervened and had the girl’s passport held at the point of embarkation,” he exclaimed.

  I stood up to stare him down. “Only after we specifically requested that your nephew keep Sally in the country—and he defied your request by making arrangements to the contrary. He could have sent her out of London and into the countryside and not defied your order.”

  Winston glanced down at the ground, unwilling to meet my gaze. “It wasn’t an order, Clemmie. He is a private citizen with all the attendant rights. And those rights do not prevent him from evacuating his daughter. Not yet anyway.”

  “You are the prime minister, and we are at war. A request is tantamount to an order, particularly since his father is living with us at Downing Street and he’s your nephew to boot.” I knew I had to stand firm. Winston had always been soft in the matter of his brother’s family. “Not to mention you’ve disapproved of the government’s proposal for a plan to evacuate women and children from the country quite vociferously.”

  He barked, “Because it would be a bloody stampede.” Then realizing he’d conceded the point, he grew quiet.

  I continued. “You would be a hypocrite to condone his action. It would be as if we’d enlisted the whole of the country to help in the war effort but allowed our own family members to sit it out, instead of insisting that they participate in the war just like every other citizen.” Winston and I have ensured that our children had been put to work: Diana as an officer in the Women’s Royal Naval Service; her husband, Duncan, as a territorial officer with the Anti-Aircraft Regiment; Randolph as an officer in Winston’s old regiment, the Fourth Hussars; and Mary, who still lived at home, as a canteen and Red Cross volunteer. The only exception was Sarah, who continued to act, although she’d promised me that she’ll join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, and Randolph’s new wife, Pamela, who was pregnant with their first child at the time of our conversation and understandably sitting out war work. My own sister, Nellie, had complied with this request as well—taking refuge in the English countryside near Chartwell—even though her sons could not, through no fault of their own. Her elder son, Giles, was still being held captive by the Nazis, albeit in relative comfort in Colditz Castle in Germany, and her younger son, Esmond, who had long rebelled against all aspects of English society and, with his distant cousin Jessica Mitford in tow as his wife, decamped to Spain to fight in their civil war before moving to America, had joined the Royal Canadian Air Force when war broke out.

  Anger passed across Winston’s face like a storm cloud and then disappeared. He sighed, saying, “You’re right, Clemmie. We can’t have a Churchill child show a lack of confidence in Britain. What would the rest of little Sally’s countrymen think?”

  “Precisely,” I said, thanking God Winston had come around.

  * * *

  But now, with de Gaulle, I see no hint that Winston will come around. In fact, he sits rather placidly, puffing away on his blasted cigar. How can he stay silent in the face of de Gaulle’s insults? This man has overstepped our hospitality, and I will not ignore his disparagements.

  In French—so that de Gaulle will not misunderstand me—I say, “General de Gaulle, your words are inappropriate from anyone, let alone someone who purports to be our partne
r.”

  De Gaulle simply stares at me, and I meet his gaze head on. Winston may not have understood my French exactly, but he certainly comprehends this tension. In an abject tone, he interjects an apology on my behalf.

  I cannot believe that Winston is apologizing for me. I will not be cowed by my husband or anyone, not even the leader of the Free French, whose alliance with England is important but fragile. If I do not adhere to what is right and just, what are we fighting for? For the first time in a long time, I realize that I must adhere to my own beliefs rather than ignore them to advance Winston and his positions.

  Without shifting my gaze from de Gaulle, I disagree with Winston, again in French. “Winston, do not apologize for me. I am not sorry for my statement. General de Gaulle needs to hear those words.”

  Both men are rendered speechless. I sip at my champagne and wait for someone to speak.

  “You are absolutely correct, Madame Churchill,” De Gaulle finally offers. “Please accept my apologies.” When he rises from his seat to kiss my hand, I nod in his direction and allow it.

  * * *

  The next morning, I hear a loud rap at my office door. It sounds like Winston’s distinctive knock, but it cannot be. The hour is not yet eight, and my husband does not typically rise until nine at the earliest, even in wartime. The door swings open with a thud, and to my surprise, it is indeed Winston, beaming in his striped pajamas and robe.

  “You must come and see this, Clemmie,” he says, striding out of the room with an unusual energy for so early an hour.

  “Whatever is it, Winston?” I call back at him. Glancing over at Grace, who has been helping me with correspondence since seven o’clock—it seems the more I respond to the people personally, the more letters they send. Grace, usually placid in demeanor, appears as perplexed as I feel.

  “It simply must be seen to be believed,” he yells back, waking whatever members of the house haven’t already risen.

  As we near the foyer, my skirt swishing in the quiet of the still Annexe, a fragrant smell overtakes me, and I almost swoon with delight. It has been months since I’ve inhaled the heady scent of flowers. We step into the foyer, which blooms with overflowing vases of fuchsia, yellow, and cornflower blue like a spring meadow.

  Winston hands me a card, which, I see, he has already opened. “Dear Mrs. Churchill. Please accept my most abject apology for my misbehavior last evening. I have only the greatest respect for you and your husband. Sincerely yours, General Charles de Gaulle.”

  He squeezes my free hand and says, “As I first said many years ago, you are indeed my secret weapon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  December 24, 1940

  Buckinghamshire, England

  What is it about a crisis that draws us closer to our loved ones? Why do the differences between us—minuscule and vast—seem to disappear against the backdrop of mounting catastrophe? It seems that a world war is necessary to erase the divide between Winston and me and our children and to remind us of the familial threads knitting us together.

  As I gaze around the Christmas Eve dinner table, I am incredulous and grateful that every one of our children and their spouses—however tenuous their marriages—have been able to join us at Chequers, the designated country retreat for the prime minister. I smile at the unusually content Diana and her husband, Duncan; their sweet young children, Edwina and Julian, have retired to bed upstairs under their nanny’s care. The less contented Sarah sits adjacent to her husband, Vic; he has been the recipient of several withering glances from his wife because Vic, born in Austria but now an American citizen, wants to relocate to the United States, despite Sarah’s obvious loyalty to Britain and despite Winston’s orders that no member of the Churchill family should flee England. The birth of now-three-month-old little Winston has reunited Randolph and Pamela for the holidays, but I fear for the longevity of this reconciliation. Randolph has had some success as of late—he won a seat in Parliament in the fall, albeit an unopposed Preston seat, and his military work has been moderately successful, despite the dislike his men have for him—but his achievements have not slowed his gambling or philandering. It is only Pamela’s bond with Winston and me that incentivized her to join him here. Mary alone, who spent the summer safely in Norfolk with the family of my cousin Venetia and her daughter and the fall here at Chequers working for the Women’s Voluntary Service, remains unchanged by the war, and her even-tempered kindliness is a great solace to me and Winston. Of all our children, only poor little Marigold is not with us tonight, and quite against my wishes, I feel the melancholy pang of her absence after all these years. I brush away the unwelcome tear welling up in my eye with a quick motion of my finger and engage in the animated conversation among my children and their cousins about the “genie’s cupboard” where I used to store all their Christmas presents.

  Our extended family has managed to join us as well, including Moppet, who sits happily by Mary’s side. Nellie seems surprisingly merry, despite the situations of both Giles and Esmond. Even though Goonie has been ill, Winston’s brother, Jack; Goonie; their children Johnny, Peregrine, and Clarissa; and their spouses and grandchildren rally for the holiday and gather around our table, and I overhear Winston say to his brother, “How I wish Mother were still alive to enjoy Chequers with us. She would have adored spending Christmas at the prime minister’s estate.” Strangely, his remark makes me long for my own mother, even though our always challenging relationship had grown more strained in the months before she died in Dieppe, drunk and broke from gambling, nearly fifteen years ago.

  Even though we are not spending Christmas at the family home in Chartwell, I had wanted to make Chequers glow with my usual Chartwellian Christmas spirit. Although Chartwell is boarded up for the duration of the war, several weeks ago, I invaded its storage to bring the familiar holiday decorations to Chequers. During my brief jaunt to Chartwell to organize the precise boxes to bring to Chequers, I passed by the kitchen garden. The sharp peak of the sundial peered over the hedge, and I stepped onto the garden path and walked toward the chest-high structure, which also served as a memorial to the dove Terence Philip had purchased for me in Bali years ago. I ran my fingers along the inscription at the sundial’s base, from a poem by W. P. Ker about not straying from one’s home and lingering on islands too long. I’d had the inscription made during a wistful stage.

  How long ago those days on the Rosaura seem, I thought to myself. In each life, it seemed that there was one dispositive choice, the choice that narrowed and excluded some possibilities but expanded and enlarged many others. Even though there’d been a time when I believed I should circle back and change my definitive choice and select another path for my life—the time period around the Rosaura—I now know that I’d been terribly mistaken. My dispositive decision was and had always been Winston, and the expansive, unorthodox life I’ve shared with him was the exact one I was meant to experience.

  * * *

  I glance around the room, pleased with the usual ornaments decorating the Christmas tree, and hope the children take notice. I want to remind them of the singular occasion of the year in which I commit myself entirely to bringing our family unity and joy. I do this in the hopes they will experience the same feelings, even in these tumultuous times.

  But I have held back a little in honor of wartime, particularly in my selection of food and decor. I cannot invest fully in a lavish meal when I know many are eating cheap mutton for their Christmas dinner rather than the traditional goose and turkey and will be serving the conventional pudding with carrots instead of the unattainable fruit called for by the recipes. And how can I decorate every corner of Chequers when I know many will not even be able to celebrate in their homes? For many British citizens, Christmas, which has come to be known as Blitzmas, because the Nazis show no sign of ceasing their nightly bombing for the holiday season, will be spent in an air-raid shelter. Even though I know the British
people, resilient beyond imagination, will endeavor to imbue the holiday with the Christmas spirit, I try to soften this terrible blow. I orchestrate underground canteens—I’ve heard that shelter Christmas parties will be organized around them with singing, skits, and dancing—arrange for the larger shelters to have Christmas trees, and plan for a costumed Father Christmas to visit many shelters as well. I can do nothing about the cancellation of street-side caroling, deemed unsafe with the bombings and blackouts, or the requirement that factory employees must work on Boxing Day instead of enjoying the holiday.

  Winston knows all these details, of course, but his mind soars high over the battlefields and oceans. It does not often land in the streets with the ordinary folks as does mine. So guilt doesn’t factor into his mind when he sips his Pol Roger and raises his full champagne flute now. “To my family. This has been a year brimming with hardship and toil, and yet here we sit, most of us, safe and in the warmth of one another’s company. May we all reunite here—or at Chartwell—next Christmas, unharmed and a long step closer to victory.”

  Every family member stands, careful to clink his or her flute with everyone else’s. When my glass touches Nellie’s, I see that her eyes, direct and frank as always, bear a sadness and worry too profound for tears, despite the merry smile painted upon her lips. What an unfathomable weight she carries, I think, with one son in a Nazi stronghold and another in Canada preparing for the war’s most dangerous role, that of pilot. And yet, here she stands, toasting to a happier new year. How resilient she is, and how forgetful are we of her plight.

  We must honor Nellie’s nobility and sacrifice. I raise my glass again. “Here’s to Giles’s speedy return home from Germany. And here’s to our fighting boys, especially Esmond, who is not with us tonight. May they have victorious missions and safe delivery home.”