I glance over at him, amazed at his insight. How had he known? Very few people other than family and staff comprehend the synergistic relationship that Winston and I enjoy regarding his speeches. Gil’s eyes, hooded by thick, bushy eyebrows, reveal nothing about the origin of this observation, and consequently, I merely smile at the compliment.
“Tonight, we will be four for dinner. Our daughter Sarah will be visiting,” I offer by way of a subject change, but lest he think we have dragged him out of London for a family weekend, I add, “A parade of other guests will begin arriving tomorrow morning, commencing with a dinner for twelve, and they will include some individuals helpful in your projects.” I do not mention that, among those other guests, will be more family, our daughter Mary and Pamela, Randolph’s estranged wife. Given that Winston and I work every day, if we want to see our children at all, they must join us in our more official duties and meals.
We finish our tromp through the grounds and enter through the estate’s back entrance, nearly colliding with Sarah, who arrived for the weekend. After kissing one another on the cheek, I introduce her to Gil. The usually reserved American seems animated in Sarah’s presence, and I try to see Sarah as Gil must see her. Her lovely, fair English skin with a rosy tint from the brisk air is complemented by her reddish hair that falls in waves around her face, and the khaki of her uniform enhances her coloring. She has recently entered the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force as an interpreter of aerial photographs—one of the more critical roles that women occupy—and she looks especially becoming in her uniform. What Gil cannot know about my Sarah is her inner conflict—constantly vacillating between indulging in her aristocratic status and pursuing the independent life of an actress—and the tentative state of her ill-advised marriage to fellow actor Vic, who’d decamped to the United States against the will of our entire family and from whom she’s secretly separated. Not that Gil would judge Sarah for her marital state; I’d heard that Gil was all but divorced from his own American wife as well, who allegedly prefers socializing to social reform.
Over dinner that evening, Gil listens politely to Winston’s military updates. He commiserates on America’s reluctance to enter the war, but it is Sarah who captures his attention. What a twenty-seven-year-old veritable girl and a fifty-two-year-old seasoned politician find in common baffles me, but commonalities they do indeed find. Although, I suppose an older man is a comfortable fit for Sarah, as Vic was nearly eighteen years older than my daughter.
“Are we witnessing the birth of something inappropriate?” I ask Winston after Gil and Sarah retire to separate wings for the evening.
“Whatever do you mean?” he asks distractedly, glancing up from a pile of papers on his desk. It will be hours until he makes his way to his bedroom, and his military officers will soon arrive in the study to review developments and plans.
“Did you not sense a frisson between Gil and Sarah?”
“No, but even if some flirtation transpired, surely there’s no harm in it? She’s a good girl.” He seems unperturbed, but then his mind has zeroed in on military matters. Not to mention his reaction is undoubtedly clouded by what he considers to be my exaggeration in matters concerning our children, although it is usually Randolph about whom he accuses me of overreaction.
“Anyway, Clemmie,” he says, softening, “Winant seems like a fine man. She could do far worse. In fact”—he chuckles to himself—“she has done far worse with that damn Austrian actor husband of hers.”
I allow the concern to drop. Who knows? Perhaps Winston is right. And perhaps I am exaggerating the interaction between Gil and Sarah. Anyway, in the scheme of the war, what danger can there be in a bit of flirtation?
* * *
The next morning requires a flurry of preparation, and I’m forced to leave Gil in the care of a distracted Winston and an attentive Sarah while I work with the staff on the final details of the welcoming dinner for our new guest, Averell Harriman. Roosevelt has sent the wealthy businessman to London for the specific purpose of setting up his new lend-lease military aid program, in which the United States would “rent” key armaments to us in return for assets rather than cash, a boon to our cash-strapped economy. Roosevelt’s adoption of this program was the direct result of Harry’s time with us. When he returned, he persuaded Roosevelt to proceed with the program, and Harry now serves as its administrator, overseeing many billions of dollars. Harry is the one who sent Mr. Harriman here and tasked him with delivering the planes, ships, weapons, and equipment we need to fight Hitler.
Winston and I arranged for a naval aide to pick Mr. Harriman up when he landed in Bristol and usher him onto a waiting biplane to bring him directly to Chequers for the weekend. This morning, we received word that he was en route and would be arriving at the estate in advance of dinner. Now we just needed to woo this Mr. Harriman.
By the time the tall, tanned Mr. Harriman strides into the grand dining room at Chequers, I’ve arranged for every surface and nook in the vast space to gleam, despite my reduced staff. From the burnished woodwork on the walls to the sparkling faceted crystal on the chandeliers and goblets to the crisply ironed ancient Belgian linens on the table—but never ostentatious, never opulent, simply a polishing of historical furnishings—the room appears every bit the quintessential country estate. My reconnaissance on Mr. Harriman, by all accounts a suave, wealthy businessman who appreciates all the trappings of luxury, suggests that inviting him to step into our world might be a first step toward bringing him around to embracing our cause and supporting it wholeheartedly with American armaments.
He marches toward me with a bag of tangerines in the crook of his arm. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Churchill. Your hospitality is legendary on the other side of the pond, but I must say, to be kidnapped on my arrival and swept away to this grand manor house, well, you have outdone yourself. I am embarrassed to admit that all I have in the way of a hostess gift is this paltry sack of tangerines that I picked up in Lisbon.” He hands me the bag.
My mouth actually waters at the sight of the vivid orange fruit. I cannot recall how long it’s been since I had a tangerine, or any tropical fruit, for that matter. “It is our pleasure to host you, Mr. Harriman. But don’t you dare call this gorgeous array of fruit paltry—it’s been eons since we’ve had anything so decadent as tangerines,” I exclaim.
“Hear, hear,” Winston chimes in, never one to be left out of a conversation, especially about food.
Winston and Mr. Harriman stroll off, launching directly into a discussion about munitions. I glance toward Gil, thinking that perhaps we could continue one of our conversations about American social reforms, but I see that he and Sarah are deeply engrossed in conversation. Pamela, who stays with us on Chequers weekends despite the fact that she and Randolph are estranged, no surprise given his string of affairs and gambling debts, which he’s inexplicably demanded that she pay, mercifully chats with two of Winston’s military officers with whom I’d rather not engage. Sweet Mary proudly wears her Auxiliary Territorial Service uniform, and I approach my youngest, threading my arm through hers and offering congratulations on her decision to join the unit, where she’ll be working at antiaircraft batteries. It is one of the military posts in which I’d hoped women might find a place, and I am beyond thrilled that my daughter is serving in one of these roles.
As we sit down to another miraculous meal by Mrs. Landemare and toast to our shared venture, I gaze around the room. Through our joint efforts, Winston and I have fueled the British fight against the Nazis in ways unimaginable only months ago. Soon, we may have equipment, munitions, ships, and planes to make success possible, if only we can keep the British spirits high. For so long, the focus has been solely on survival.
A welling forth of laughter, like a spring bursting from the frozen earth, breaks into my reverie. Scanning the table, I realize that Pamela is laughing at something Mr. Harriman said. When had I last really studie
d her? The youthful, eager expression she used to wear like a playful puppy has disappeared, as has the fullness of her face and the soft, voluptuous plumpness of her figure. She is almost chiseled yet still curvaceous, and she has caught Mr. Harriman’s eye. She seems to be relishing his attention, even returning it. It feels inappropriate, yet how can I begrudge her a flirtation after the reprehensible misbehavior of our errant son?
A rogue notion creeps into my consciousness—how the flirtations of Sarah and Pamela with Gil and Averell might help our cause—before I banish it. Good heavens, how can I even think about utilizing Pamela’s and Sarah’s innocent coquetries, even if it is for the greater good? At what cost am I willing to win this war?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
August 4 and 9, 1941
London and Buckinghamshire, England
The hands of the grandfather clock in my study refuse to move. The time on my wristwatch clings to its position. I will the hours and minutes to pass more quickly, but the day stubbornly adheres to its normal routine. Will it ever reach noon? I yearn for the release it will bring.
Why am I surprised at the unhurried passage of time today? After all, I feel as though I’ve been treading in increasingly viscous, torpid waters for the past few months, desperately waiting for some form of relief to emerge from the depths. I’d sensed that the seams of my composed exterior were coming unstitched during our campaign to woo the Americans into the war. The strain of forging and maintaining those ties—compounded with the pain of watching my husband chase after the recalcitrant President Roosevelt—was tremendous. But I felt I could bear up with my duties and maintain my steadfast facade until the reports poured in enumerating the loss of life, and I could see no way through to the end of this conflict except through more bloodshed. All the brisk sense of purpose that had arrived with Winston’s return to power started to disappear, only to be replaced with anxiety.
How to return to my state of calm determination? This was the question that plagued me in the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep and my long list of worries worked its tentacles into me. I longed for the sort of respite I’d taken in the past, one of my rest cures, not a Rosaura-esque excursion, but I could never leave Winston. He relied upon me completely for support and advice, and our routines and rituals were a solace to him. I would not, indeed could not, permit myself the luxury of a break, especially when our country’s women were truly suffering, like my poor sister Nellie, who was constantly awaiting word of her sons’ fates. Not when young men were dying and my husband was in charge of their destiny.
But then, in July, Harry Hopkins sent word to Winston that Roosevelt was anxious for a meeting. Finally, the news for which we’d been waiting. He and I rejoiced at this missive, seeing it as one step closer to having America as an ally in this war.
The weeks that followed were a flurry of planning, a great feat of scheduling interconnected land, sea, and air travel under the cloak of secrecy. No one person, aside from Winston, me, and a few key advisers, knew his complete itinerary, as Hitler would like nothing more than to bomb Winston in the air or sea as he made the crossing to America and claim victory.
I promised myself that if I could just make it through one more week, then one more day, then one more hour before Winston left for America, I could take the respite I need before I splinter. Casting around for a secure, private establishment for a focused rest cure, I read about Dr. Stanley Lief and his unique work at Champneys, a health retreat in Buckinghamshire. Dr. Lief holds some unorthodox but compelling views about the negative impact that stress and nervousness have on one’s health. Thinking back over the course of my life—the times when my nerves overwhelmed and the consequent maladies, both physical and emotional—this made perfect sense to me, even though most other doctors I’d consulted held no such view. I booked a week-long stay for the time when Winston was away and stuck to my plans even when Winston dubbed it a madhouse.
The door shudders with a knock. Has the hour come? Glancing over at the grandfather clock, I see that it is eleven thirty on the nose, earlier than the designated hour. Is Winston eager to leave? “Come in,” I say.
Jock peeks his head in the door. “The prime minister is ready for you, ma’am.”
How my relationship with Winston’s private secretary has change since our early days, I think. In the past, he’d have bristled at the lowly task of notifying the prime minister’s wife.
“Thank you, Jock. Where is he?”
“In the entryway of the Annexe, ma’am. Ready to push out.”
Nodding, I push myself up from my chair, straightening my dove-gray, serge wool dress, and follow Jock down the hallway. When I round the bend into the foyer, I see Winston from the back, a great hulking presence of a man, intimidatingly fierce to so many but my needy, sensitive Pug underneath. He turns toward me, his eyes soft, and my heart tugs unexpectedly. Why am I suddenly feeling so sentimental about Winston’s departure for this trip when we’ve been separated so many times before? Is it the risk associated with the travel? Or my guilt over wishing away the time before he leaves?
“I’ll miss you, Cat,” Winston whispers into my ear. He seems unusually sentimental as well, perhaps for much the same reasons.
“And I you, Mr. Pug,” I whisper back, and even though I need this span of time alone to reassemble myself, I mean it.
* * *
A sliver of morning sun streams through a small gap in the two billowing seafoam-green silk curtains that cover the French doors leading to my private patio. The shift in my bedroom’s brightness awakens me, and I stretch like a cat awakening from a nap, thinking that I could sleep forever. How relaxed and at ease I feel at Champneys, I think.
I experience a curious sense of lightness here. It did not settle upon me when I stepped into the attractive facility five days ago but in stages. The first bit occurred when I surrendered my wardrobe of wool dresses and suits for the Champneys’ loose-fitting, soft cotton dresses; I felt as liberated as I did when fashion no longer dictated corsets. The next layer happened when I was encouraged by the staff to sleep as much as my body permitted; I slipped into the cool, pressed cotton bedsheets and slept away the fatigue that had plagued me since the war began. The final stage transpired during my sessions with Dr. Lief. In them, we built up to confessional discussions about the restlessness I experience around motherhood and the anxiety I feel when tending to Winston. When the doctor validated my emotions and explained their interrelationship with my physical health—something no other medical professional had ever done—I felt an almost tangible lifting sensation from my shoulders and back and a new openness across my chest.
Since then, I stopped questioning why I must leave my family and responsibilities to arrive at myself. I halted my self-criticism about my inability to bring a sense of wholeness and peace to my everyday life. And I no longer felt angry at Winston for indulging his depression but being unable to understand—or empathize with—my own struggle with nerves. After all, it took this particular doctor and establishment for me to comprehend it myself and give myself permission to heal.
I understand what I must do to maintain this sense of self-tranquility and fortitude of purpose. I will do what’s necessary so I can meet Winston at King’s Cross Station when he returns from his meeting with Roosevelt, restored and ready for whatever Hitler inflicts next.
Chapter Forty
December 7, 1941
London and Buckinghamshire, England
“Come, Clemmie,” Winston urges as the train pulls into the remains of a station. We have four stops today, the areas most heavily bombarded by our enemies, and to make each one and interact meaningfully with the people, we must proceed apace.
But I cannot disembark without my headscarf, not in this chill. I adopted the bandana style of headscarves as soon as I saw that the female factory workers throughout the country tied up their hair in this style for safety and to keep
out dirt and dust. I wear it in solidarity with the women supporting our country’s war effort, and I’ve been told my wardrobe of scarves has become my trademark, aligning me with the British women and showing my support of them.
“One moment only, Winston,” I call back and select a simple cotton scarf, in a navy that matches my dress. I tie it around my hair and anchor it with my earrings.
Winston is waiting for me at the door of the special train he had outfitted explicitly for the purpose of traveling to these scarred and devastated sites. I take his arm, and we step out onto a ruined street. Crowds have already gathered around the train, and we move through the cheering people, shaking hands and making inquiries. We visit families—usually only mothers and children, as fathers are away at war—who emerge from the shambles of their homes to greet us. Winston and I are often left crying at the bravery and tenacity of our citizens after these visits, in the privacy of our train car.
As always, the visit culminates with a speech, each a slight variant on another. Today, he finishes with a rousing call to action, in which he praises the British people for their tenacity and urges them to remain strong.
Now, more than ever, Winston serves as an emblem of hope and courage, imparting to the people the strength to endure the unendurable for another day.
As I stare out at the crowds desperate for a lifeline that will buoy them, I wish that Winston’s speeches had the capacity to help my poor Nellie. Only a week ago, her son Esmond was out on a bombing raid over Germany with his Royal Canadian Air Force squadron when he was shot down over the North Sea. Winston and I delivered the news in person to Nellie, and I don’t think I will ever recover from watching my sister crumple like a tissue when learning that her son, whose unorthodox political views, not to mention his elopement, had given her much cause for concern during his life, had died. As I clutched my sister, sobbing alongside her, I glanced up at Winston, who looked as helpless as I felt. Remembering that powerless moment, a rage rises within me, along with a hardening of resolve. All the control and calm I’d mustered this summer during my rest cure vanished. Because I know that while these visits to bomb sites act as a tourniquet for the injuries to people’s spirits, we must find a way to stop the bloodshed at the source.
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