Churchill’s Hour. Michael Dobbs

clearly adored him, but marriage was never an easy option in the Churchill family.

      Only Mary, the youngest, seemed completely at ease, more down to earth than any of them, her family path beaten flat by the struggles of those who had gone before. As they exchanged presents, they fussed over Pamela’s baby, Churchill’s first grandchild, still only ten weeks old, and when it was time for the King’s radio broadcast they stood for the National Anthem, then sat on the edge of their seats as they waited for one of his terrible stutters to tangle his words—all except Randolph, who relaxed in the folds of his armchair with a whisky. But His Majesty didn’t falter, announcing that his countrymen could look forward to the New Year with sober confidence. Well, some of them, at least.

      When the King had finished they were at last released to the dining room. ‘Pour the wine, Sawyers!’ the old man instructed. As the first dribble of golden liquid fell into his glass, he grabbed the bottle, trying to decipher the label. ‘Where are my reading glasses, Sawyers? What have you done with them?’

      ‘I suspect you’ll find ’em in yer top pocket.’

      ‘Dammit,’ Churchill said, fumbling for his elusive glasses, ‘so what is this you’re trying to poison us with?’

      ‘An excellent hock. A gift to yer from Mrs Chamberlain. From the late Prime Minister’s personal cellar.’

      ‘German, is it?’

      ‘That’s right. Given him by an admirer.’

      ‘Ah, one of von Ribbon-top’s bottles, I’ll be bound.’

      ‘I’ll throw it away, then.’

      ‘Steady on, it’s a pre-Nazi vintage, I’ll say that much for it,’ Churchill said, peering at the label. ‘A shame to get rid of it before we’ve had a chance to taste it. So damn the Fuehrer and pour, Sawyers. What are you waiting for, man?’

      ‘Damn the Fuehrer, zur.’ The servant moved along the table, filling glasses and condemning the Fuehrer at every turn, ignoring the scowls of Clementine who, even after so many years of enduring blasphemy at her table, still insisted on showing her displeasure.

      ‘And God save us from the bloody Bolsheviks,’ Churchill added, pulling apart a lobster.

      A considerable quantity of Mr Chamberlain’s hock had been tested by the time Sawyers brought in the turkey, laid out upon a huge wooden carving dish.

      ‘A fine specimen, Sawyers,’ Churchill pronounced, nodding at the bird.

      ‘Indeed, zur.’ The servant sharpened the carving knife as Mrs Landemare and a maid carried in dishes of vegetables.

      Randolph took the opportunity to raise his glass in mock salute. ‘Meleagris gallopavo. The turkey. About the only useful thing the Americans ever sent us. That and tobacco.’ He swallowed deep. ‘Such a fundamentally useless nation.’

      ‘Randolph!’ his mother snapped in reproach. ‘You forget. Your grandmother was American.’

      ‘And we shouldn’t attack those who extend the hand of friendship,’ his father warned, more softly, but the son swirled the green liquid in his glass as though to excite the argument. The rest of them knew what to expect. Sawyers stared in warning at Mrs Landemare and the maid, who vanished like ghosts at dawn.

      ‘It seems to me a strange sort of friendship, Papa, that ends up with our pockets being picked and our Empire held to ransom.’

      ‘That is a wholly reprehensible remark.’

      ‘And holy fact. You know it is. They’ve bled us dry. Filched every last penny from our pockets until we’re practically bankrupt.’

      ‘Please don’t argue with your father, not today,’ Clementine said, knowing her words would prove entirely useless.

      ‘Mama, we are penniless. Quite literally. Not a bean.’

      ‘You always exaggerate, Randolph.’

      ‘Papa, please tell Mama what happened when you wrote to Roosevelt the other week to tell him our reserves were exhausted.’

      Churchill looked in despair at the turkey.

      ‘Papa, please…’ Randolph insisted.

      ‘Shall I carve, zur?’ Sawyers said, forcing his way into the conversation. ‘A bit o’ leg, Mr Randolph, or do you prefer breast?’

      But the younger Churchill was not to be diverted.

      ‘Mama, we told the President we had next to nothing left, down to our last fifty million in gold. So what did he do, this so-called friend of ours? He sent one of his own destroyers to South Africa to collect the entire bloody lot. He thinks Papa is Santa Claus!’

      ‘We owed him the money for war matériel. He was in a most difficult position,’ Churchill began defensively. But already Randolph was rushing past him.

      ‘No, Papa. We are in the difficult position. And he takes advantage of us.’

      ‘He is a great friend.’

      ‘Gossip on the circuit is he doesn’t even like you.’

      ‘You may deal in gossip, Randolph, but I must deal in hard facts!’ Churchill responded irritably.

      ‘And the fact is, Papa, that we’ve paid him every last shekel, and he sends us nothing but junk.’

      ‘Destroyers. He sends us destroyers,’ Clemmie intervened.

      ‘Junk!’ Randolph spat. ‘The only ships he sends us are rust buckets from the last war which are so old they’re already obsolete. Do you know, Mama, that before we get them they have to be officially certified by the US Navy as being useless? And they bloody are.’

      ‘The President has to operate within the laws of his country and under the eye of a sceptical Congress,’ Churchill responded. ‘His hands are tied.’

      ‘Papa, Papa.’ The son raised his own hands in operatic despair. ‘The time for excuses is gone. That might have washed while he was running for re-election, but now he’s won. Back in the White House for another four years. Roosevelt is tied by nothing but his own timidity.’

      ‘His people do not want war.’

      ‘Our own people don’t want war!’ Randolph banged the table in anger. ‘We seem to have got it nonetheless.’

      Churchill chewed on his unlit cigar. As so often, buried in the midst of his son’s excess lay an unwholesome chunk of truth, like gristle running through meat. Roosevelt had promised his people peace, had told the mothers of America again and again—and then again—that their boys were not going to be sent to any foreign war. It was politics, of course, democracy at its most base, the lowest common denominator, but there came a point where you judged a man not simply by his words but by his habits. And it worried Churchill more deeply than he cared to admit how the US President had fallen into the habit of ignoring his messages. His silences could no longer be explained away as electoral distraction, that was now gone, the barrier surmounted, yet since the election a few weeks earlier there had been a remarkable chill in the wind that had blown from Washington. Roosevelt hadn’t even replied to Churchill’s telegram of congratulation, and his debt-collecting methods had come to resemble those of an Irish landlord rather than a Christian friend. And that was the point, for Churchill clung to his view that he was fighting not just for the narrow interests of Britain but on behalf of a shared cultural tradition that crossed the Atlantic and stretched back two thousand years and more. Yet Roosevelt would have none of it. It seemed America wanted only to be paid.

      ‘Carve the bloody turkey, Sawyers,’ Churchill said. ‘And let’s pretend it’s Christmas.’

      Arguments over lunch were nothing new and Christmas still had many hours to go in the Churchill household, yet it was never fully to recover its spirit. Indeed, the day was eventually to founder completely, ruined by events that had taken place some weeks beforehand and in another