First Lady

by Sonia Purnell

  Pamela and Randolph’s only child together, little Winston, was born in the chintzy four-poster bed in his grandfather’s bedroom at Chequers (known as Bedroom Two) at 4.40 on the morning of 10 October 1940, not long after a large bomb had exploded nearby. Randolph was in London and could not be contacted – it turned out he was in the arms of someone else’s wife – so the event was recorded in the visitors’ book by Clementine herself.

  Winston was so thrilled by the arrival of a grandson who would carry on the Churchill name that he would sometimes stand and watch Pamela nursing him. It was a rare homely scene in a house that otherwise throbbed with restless activity whenever Winston was in residence. One observer noted that he ‘always seemed to be at his Command post on the precarious beachhead and the guns were continually blazing in his conversation; wherever he was, there was the battlefront’;65 as a result Winston expected Chequers to operate as an alternative headquarters. On a Friday afternoon, private secretaries, phone operators, detectives, chauffeurs and dispatch riders would accompany him down from London in a high-speed convoy, bells ringing as red lights were jumped. Clementine would often go on ahead to help the staff ensure that all was perfect for his arrival.

  Gaining access to Chequers, even for Clementine, meant negotiating an ever-changing rigmarole of passwords, codes, identity cards and the nervous challenges of guards. There were spotters on the roof, gun emplacements on a nearby hill, and companies of soldiers billeted in Nissen huts along the Lime Walk. Men from different regiments took turns to guard the house but Clementine socialised only with the most upmarket. ‘It amused me mildly that Mrs C, who does nothing but profess democratic and radical sentiments, should put off inviting any of the officers to dine until the guard consisted of the Coldstream,’ Colville noted. ‘The Oxford and Bucks Light Infantry were never invited inside.’66

  Despite all the intrusive security, Clementine and the family were never safe. Chequers’ distinctive position close to two areas of high ground made it vulnerable to aerial attack, particularly on moonlit nights. The bomb that fell during Pamela’s labour confirmed suspicions that the Luftwaffe was aware of the location of the house. An alternative weekend retreat was needed and the lavishly restored Ditchley Park in Oxfordshire, owned by the Anglo-American Conservative MP Ronald Tree, was selected. Bigger, smarter and better heated than Chequers – and discreetly located down a long single-track road – Ditchley was a bona fide stately home, where pre-war standards were maintained courtesy of a family fortune amassed from a Chicago department store. Faced with a request from the Prime Minister, Tree could hardly refuse and so the Churchill circus moved there whenever the moon was high (and sometimes when it wasn’t).

  How Clementine must have relished these brief reprieves from the responsibility of running the Prime Minister’s household. The Trees were spectacular hosts, but the strain – even on a house as grand as Ditchley, with its twenty-nine bedrooms and Velvet Room covered in eighteenth-century Genoese silk – was nonetheless considerable. After just two weekends of accommodating the Churchills, Winston’s secretary Kathleen Hill was enquiring if it would be in order to grant extra rations to Nancy Tree’s chef.67

  Clementine knew all too well how challenging it was to produce good food on coupons. Rationing had been introduced in January 1940 and typically limited weekly purchases per person to two ounces each of butter and tea, one ounce of cheese, eight ounces of sugar, and four ounces each of bacon, ham and margarine. She insisted, of course, that the Churchills were issued with the same ration cards as everyone else. Fortunately, this meagre fare was regularly topped up by friends and well-wishers, either from their own farms or from abroad, as well as from the extra supplies permitted for government entertaining, so it would be wrong to believe they suffered the same deprivations as others outside their magic circle. In fact, Clementine put on a stone in weight during the war as she had little time to exercise or diet. But even in her privileged position it was a struggle to cater for Winston’s high expectations, not least because he liked to conduct much of his business over the dining table. Wartime or no, he would harangue the cook in person if the soup were tasteless. Mercifully for all, Clementine hired Georgina Landemare, who had previously helped out occasionally at Chartwell, to work for her full time at Downing Street. Mrs Landemare, who had been married to a French chef, became legendary for what she could do with basic wartime provisions.

  Over time, Clementine began to yearn for the odd evening away from the succession of official dinners, and the discussion of the war that inevitably dominated them. ‘She had tailored her whole life. . . totally to Winston,’ said Pamela.68 In need of the occasional respite, however brief, she made Pamela (rather than one of her own children) her emissary. Periodically, she would send her daughter-in-law a note on a Saturday afternoon informing her that she would not be down for dinner and that Pamela should act as hostess at the grand Georgian dining table in her place.

  Clementine conserved her energies for the most important occasions, including a tense meeting in mid-summer 1940 with the Free French leader General Charles de Gaulle. This took place in the small white dining room at Downing Street – so admired by Cecil Beaton – shortly after Winston had ordered the Royal Navy to open fire on the French fleet anchored at Oran in North Africa to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. It had been a brutal decision, with a resultant death toll of 1300, but it was undeniably necessary. France was now run by a pro-Nazi regime and the battleships might have been commandeered by Germany or its allies. When the conversation over lunch turned to the future of the remaining French fleet, Clementine said she hoped it would support the British effort to defeat the Nazis. De Gaulle caustically replied that it would give the French more satisfaction to turn their guns on the British.

  Clementine found the remark unacceptable. In stately French, she upbraided him for uttering sentiments ill-suited to an ally, let alone a guest. Noticing the sudden tension, Winston attempted to placate the General: ‘You must forgive my wife. Elle parle trop bien le français.’ Glaring at her husband, Clementine retorted, again in French: ‘Winston, it’s not that at all. There are certain things that a woman can say to a man which a man cannot say, and I am saying them to you, General de Gaulle!’ The Frenchman apologised repeatedly to his hostess and the following day he sent her a huge bouquet of flowers.

  Pamela, who witnessed the encounter, regarded Clementine as the only person who could say ‘No’ to Winston ‘and she did that often, often, often, often . . . She was hard on herself but was also hard on him.’69 In one sitting, however, Clementine had faced down not only her husband, but another of the most powerful men in the fragile alliance against Germany. She earned in the process the undying respect of both of them.

  The winter of 1940–1 appeared to be, in Winston’s own phrase, the ‘hour of doom’.70 France, Poland, Denmark, Norway, Belgium and Holland had all fallen. Hitler’s Luftwaffe bombers were flattening swathes of British cities, his U-boats were sinking vital supply ships in the North Atlantic, and all the while Japan was ‘glowering on the other side of the globe’.71

  By this stage, America’s material contribution amounted to little more than some semi-obsolete destroyers that had arrived late and in a poor state of repair – and for which the US had demanded a king’s ransom. Winston tried to keep his tone with the President friendly and patient, and to be understanding of Roosevelt’s political battles back in Washington. He also tried to frighten FDR by painting a cataclysmic vision of a terrifyingly strong Europe, united under Hitler’s command, ranged against an unprepared America. But while FDR promised military supplies in his ‘Arsenal of Democracy’ speech on 29 December 1940 the US showed no real sign of entering the war and time for Britain was fast running out.

  It was at this bleak point in history that Roosevelt decided to send as his emissary to London an ailing, gambling, wisecracking welfare administrator of humble origins – and virulent Anglo-sceptic views.

  Chapter Ten
<
br />   Operation Seduction USA

  1941–42

  Sallow-faced and greying, Harry Hopkins was an incorrigible workaholic even though cancer had left him with only half a stomach and permanently malnourished. Kept alive by virtue of a large ‘personal pharmacy’ of pills, he looked as worn out as his frayed, saggy suits. Divorced from his first wife, left bereft by the death of his second, and now at the mercy of the damp chill of an English winter, he was in evident need of mothering. The decidedly un-maternal Clementine instantly took him under her wing.

  Like Winston she had been puzzled by the news that President Roosevelt was sending as his envoy a diplomatic unknown. The son of a harness maker and a prime architect of the New Deal, Hopkins meanwhile bridled at the very thought of the monarchist Winston. He made clear from the start that he planned to resist the Prime Minister’s legendary persuasiveness. ‘I suppose Churchill is convinced he’s the greatest man in the world,’1 he grumbled to a friend before leaving Washington. Instinctively an isolationist, he seriously doubted whether Britain was even worth saving.

  Brendan Bracken, who had met him on the croquet power circuit in Long Island, now informed the Churchills that Hopkins’ fact-finding visit was of incalculable importance. Hopkins might be anti-British, but he was closer to Roosevelt than anyone in the President’s inner circle and was regarded on Capitol Hill as the second most powerful man in Washington. He lived just down the landing from the President’s bedroom in the White House – and so endured with Franklin the notoriously unappetising food served by Eleanor Roosevelt’s kitchen.

  Hopkins’ scepticism about Britain was in any case far from uncommon in the US. American opinion – shared by most of Congress and the military – was still largely against involvement in the war. Many feared supplying armaments would either leave America undefended, or would ensure that the weaponry fell into Nazi hands once Britain was defeated. Others believed, wrongly, that the riches of the British Empire were virtually limitless, and they saw no good in helping what they still imagined to be an imperialist nation of murderous redcoats. It was clear that the US would only wade in if Roosevelt was persuaded to intervene personally. How Hopkins (and later other key Americans) reported back to the President was, therefore, vital to Britain’s survival.

  Fortunately, Bracken had observed that Hopkins combined a Democrat’s concern for the many with a taste for hobnobbing with the rich and powerful few. He revelled in the attentions of beautiful high-born women and appreciated fine dining in fancy surroundings. Bombed, blasted but so far unbeaten, the Churchills thus set out to win him over with their particular brand of upper-class elegance, charm and ‘ambrosial’ food. Britain was virtually bankrupt, but no expense was to be spared in making Hopkins welcome; everything was to be choreographed for maximum effect. The ‘half-blind’, as Winston later referred to the Americans at this time, were to be made to see. It was Britain’s last chance.

  Rather than the usual Foreign Office flunkey, it was Bracken who went to meet Hopkins when his flying boat landed at Poole one cold Thursday afternoon in January 1941. Bracken found the American so exhausted by his lengthy transatlantic journey (a four-lap trip involving up to thirty hours in the air) that he was too weak to unfasten his seatbelt. After allowing Hopkins a brief rest, Bracken escorted him to London via a specially scheduled train, which, under Winston’s direct orders, comprised the most luxurious Pullman carriages staffed by conductors in white gloves.

  Back in Downing Street, Clementine was already hard at work with Mrs Landemare planning for Hopkins’ private lunch with Winston the following day. She ensured that the wartime dining room in the basement – one of the few parts of the building still regularly used – looked as appealing as possible, despite the presence of steel shutters at the windows and metal pit props to strengthen the ceiling. The overall effect, enhanced by flowers, chintz curtains and paintings by the French masters Ingres and David, was of a ship’s wardroom.

  She also resorted to other well-tested means of lifting male spirits. Knowing the power Pamela wielded over older men, Clementine prominently placed a particularly flattering photograph of her daughter-in-law (with the young Winston) on a fine old antique table. It was one of the first things Hopkins noticed when Bracken escorted him into the room at midday and fixed him a sherry. In a promising start, Hopkins complimented Winston on his daughter-in-law’s ‘delicious’ beauty, but it soon became clear he was not so easy a catch. Deprived of sleep thanks to the Luftwaffe bombing overnight, he challenged his host by suggesting that Winston did ‘not like America, Americans or Roosevelt’. Winston responded with the utmost charm, describing in florid terms his admiration for the President and the nation of which he was leader, and informing his guest that he himself was half-American. Yet even Winston’s genial best was not quite enough to win Hopkins round, and they settled down to lunch still at odds.

  Hopkins’ ill health often made eating a struggle but he relished the menu of tasty clear soup, followed by tender cold beef with green salad, all washed down with one of the finest wines in the government’s depleted stocks. Winston insisted he have seconds, including more of what Hopkins called ‘jelly’ with his beef, and the American was only too happy to oblige. The two men discovered they liked each other’s wit, pugnacity and irreverence. This was dinner-table diplomacy at its best. By the time a smiling Mrs Landemare came in with the cheese and the port, followed by coffee, Hopkins was succumbing to Winston’s charisma – and Clementine’s cuisine. When he eventually emerged onto London’s bomb-scarred streets at four o’clock, feeling unusually invigorated, he declared, ‘I never had such an enjoyable time.’2

  The following day (a Saturday) he was invited for further ‘enjoyable times’ in the historic splendours of Ditchley. There he met Winston and the other guests before and after dinner in the fifty-foot-long library, with its two marble fireplaces, red leather sofas and towering bookcases, and ate in the opulent dining room beneath a huge chandelier and twinkling sconces. He was being treated to the ultimate English country-house weekend; and it made a dramatic contrast to the Roosevelt White House, which was notoriously cluttered and even a little grubby and where the servants ate better than the guests. Here in war-torn England, however, Clementine ensured Hopkins was waited on hand and foot and that his every need was catered for.

  Hopkins pretended his ill health was due to a bug caught on the trip over, but she was not fooled and observed him so attentively that she came to know when he was cold or in pain just ‘by looking at him’. She made sure the fires were banked up and around eleven of an evening she urged him to go to bed, saying, ‘You have a long day tomorrow and you can have a nice talk with Winston in the morning. I’ve fixed your bed and put a hot water bottle in it.’ Normally known for ‘a tongue like a skinning knife and a temper like a Tartar’,3 Hopkins felt so at ease he even played with Nelson, the scratchy Churchill cat.

  The trip was in all respects confounding his expectations. It was, of course, not all pleasure, but it was always purposeful. Both Churchills took their guest on tours of bombsites during the week, and along with millions of Britons he endured the German air raids by night. Then, at the weekends, he was treated to aristocratic finery. It was a potent mix for a poor boy from Iowa.

  Clementine planned virtually every moment of his day with the aim of furthering the British cause, and made a ‘great fuss’ if the staff allowed Hopkins to stray from her carefully chosen itinerary. The message was at all times to be clear and consistent – even if not entirely truthful. The Churchills secretly knew from recent decrypt successes at Bletchley Park that the imminent danger of invasion had receded. But Hopkins was to be given the unequivocal impression that it could happen at any time. Although they became genuinely fond of him, the national imperative of emphasising to Roosevelt the scale and immediacy of the Nazi threat trumped everything else.

  As the Churchills had hoped, the hard-bitten Hopkins was astonished by the good-humoured determination of a people who lived
with the constant reality of death and destruction. He was also moved by the enthusiastic welcome he received as the representative of a nation that had, in truth, been miserly in its support for the last democracy in Europe to hold out against Nazism. He reported back to Roosevelt: ‘The people here are amazing from Churchill down and if courage alone can win – the result will be inevitable.’4 Moreover, he was quickly convinced of Winston’s greatness as a leader, exclaiming after one late evening spent with the Prime Minister: ‘Jesus Christ! What a man.’ But for all this, Hopkins had no doubt that ‘the most charming and entertaining of all the people that he met’ on his extended six-week trip ‘was Mrs Churchill’.5

  ‘I suppose you wish to know what I am going to say to President Roosevelt on my return,’ Hopkins remarked to Winston and Clementine at an intimate dinner at the end of January, just before he left for home. They sat in agonised suspense, while a blizzard roared outside, until finally he resumed. ‘Well, I’m going to quote you one verse from that Book of Books. “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”’ He added very quietly: ‘Even to the end.’ Tears poured down Winston’s face; Clementine too was quietly sobbing. ‘The words,’ recalled Winston’s doctor, Lord Moran, who was present at Clementine’s insistence, ‘seemed like a rope to a drowning man.’ Their mission had surely succeeded.

  Hopkins arrived back in the US ‘more of a partisan than perhaps might have been expected by anyone who had not been exposed to the Churchillian force’.6 Some even thought he had been bewitched. With great urgency he told Roosevelt that America must do all it could to help Britain with guns, ships and planes, and as the old country no longer had the funds to buy the ‘cash and carry’ armaments it desperately needed, some acute form of American financial aid would have to be introduced. Hopkins, already Roosevelt’s fixer-in-chief, now became Winston’s de facto representative in Washington as well. He even persuaded the once sceptical Roosevelt to describe Winston as a ‘brilliant and great leader’ in his speech on 15 March at the White House Correspondents’ Association dinner.