“You are?” he barked, making no attempt to charm.
But the twinkle in his eyes belied his stern look.
“Victoria Stewart, the first secretary….”
“Victoria, is it? I was born under her reign. Fine woman. A progenitor of royal crowns across Europe.”
Victoria had seen the man in person before but certainly never in bed. He had the fierce look of a chained bulldog.
“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the desk.
She sat down, put a paper in the roller, and waited. She noticed that Thompson had moved into a corner of the bedroom and ensconced himself in an upholstered easy chair.
“They all have issues,” Churchill said, shaking his head and looking toward Thompson. “A fine man, Acheson. Man of principle. Not fond of Franklin. Wants me to insert something about the United Nations in my speech.” He shook his head. “Has a point. I will do it, of course. Such an organization might very well be worth the candle. Will it work or become a debating society? One never knows. Indeed, it might get us into heaven at long last, or at the very least, keep us out of hell.” He chuckled.
Victoria eyed the blank paper, primed to begin, but Churchill went on.
“This Acheson. His Christian name is Dean — never ceases to amaze me how my mother’s countrymen name their offspring after titles. I’ve met ‘Kings,’ ‘Dukes,’ ‘Earls.’ But then, there is a certain logic to ‘Dean.’ He is the son of an Episcopal bishop and dean is the next rank under bishop, as earl is to marquis. Maybe he was christened Dean because he was the son of a bishop.”
Listening, Victoria remembered her boss’s cautionary tale about Mr. Churchill’s habit of anecdotal asides. Suddenly, he observed her with intensity and smiled with obvious ingratiation.
“My dear, if you can take dictation as well as you look, we shall get along famously. Where are you from, Miss Victoria Stewart?”
“Chelsea, sir.”
“Were you there during the blitz?”
“Yes, I was. Our home was destroyed, but we all survived.”
“Hitler was quite ruthless,” Churchill nodded, shaking his head.
“And I do remember,” Victoria added, “‘Never was so much owed by so many to so few.’ Stuck with me, sir.”
“As it should, my dear, as it should. Those were indeed dark days, very dark. People must never forget that.”
“No, sir.”
Churchill’s cigar had gone out. Thompson moved quickly forward, clicked a lighter, and brought the flame forward to light the cigar. Churchill looked at the burning end then puffed contently.
“Thompson here is my companion in vice. He encourages my habit.”
“Against your doctor’s orders, Mr. Churchill,” Thompson said, revealing the easy closeness of their relationship.
Maclean had characterized him as Churchill’s shadow and bodyguard. She understood the reference but questioned why he needed a bodyguard. He was no longer prime minister.
“Clementine has great faith in his guardianship,” Churchill said. “Having been through a number of wars, imprisoned, shot at, an easy, bulky target, one would think Providence alone would continue its fine work of protection.”
“Even Providence needs an occasional helper, Mr. Churchill,” Thompson said, straight-faced.
It was obvious to Victoria that this was a much-repeated routine between them.
“Shall we begin, Miss Stewart?”
Victoria braced herself in her chair, her fingers poised on the keyboard. Churchill began to dictate. She could tell even at this early stage that he had probably worked out the pattern and construction of the speech in his mind. She had the impression that he had already gone over the lines in his head, and when he spoke finally, he was merely unreeling the words solely for the benefit of the typewriter.
She worked diligently, thankful for the many pauses. Although, his interruptions, asides, and anecdotes, as Donald had warned her, made her anxious. Apparently, he needed the diversions to stoke his mind.
At first, she took down the words by rote, concentrating on the sentences, some of which came out in a stammer, then raging forward with such sudden passion that she could barely keep up. When a page was finished, she paused to put in another.
“Faster, please!” Churchill snapped. “You must insert the paper faster.”
“Yes, sir.”
She typed at breakneck speed. At times, spent after a sudden burst, he paused and would relate an anecdote that seemed totally irrelevant to the text he was creating.
In one such pause, he said, “Did you know, Miss Stewart, that Winnie the Pooh was named after me?”
“Why no, sir,” Victoria said, stunned not by the assertion but by its total irrelevancy to the speech.
“Oh, yes. The playwright, A. A. Milne, is my good friend.” Churchill chuckled. “He told me that his two-year-old son, Christopher Robin, called a toy bear he had given him ‘Pooh’ in baby talk. It was the closest he could get to ‘bear.’ But Alan thought the bear should have a name so he called him ‘Winnie’ after me.”
He shook his head, obviously enjoying the sudden flight into nostalgia.
“Once in the war, I instructed that lines in The House on Pooh Corner be code words for our British operatives in France for their radioing back of information. They had all grown up, you see, with Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh. Some priggish bureaucrats in Whitehall objected, but I overruled them. I told them that the Nazis would never figure it out — they have no sense of whimsy.”
He was silent for a while then began again. She braced herself for the onslaught. The words came roaring out.
“The Soviets have divided Europe into two halves and put up a fence….” He paused. “…An iron fence.” He shook his head. “No, strike that… a barricade.” He shook his head in frustration. “Strike that.” He mulled it over further. “Shield?” He shook his head. “Leave it blank, Miss… we’ll look it over in draft.” Then he continued, “…Has descended across the Continent. Behind the line, lie all the countries of Central and Eastern Europe, their populations now in the Soviet sphere, and all are subject, in one form or another, not only to Soviet influence but to a very high measure of control from Moscow.”
His stammering and many hesitations made it difficult to follow, but she was certain that she could figure it out when she typed a clean copy. He shook his head, obviously dissatisfied with the phrasing.
“Needs work,” he grumped.
At times, he would ask her to strike out whole sentences and complain about the slowness, although she was going as fast as she could. After a while, she only typed two or three dashes to indicate the deletion.
Throughout the dictation, Thompson calmly read the paper, looking from behind it only when something was said that particularly perked his interest. During one long burst, he listened with rapt attention, his brows creased in concentration.
“In a great number of countries, far from the Russian frontiers throughout the world, Communist fifth columns are established and work in complete unity and absolute obedience to the directions they receive from the Communist center.”
“If I might comment, Mr. Churchill,” Thompson interrupted. “Isn’t that inflammatory?”
“I hope so,” Churchill replied, remarkably tolerant of Thompson’s remark, indicating the closeness of their relationship. “This must be said: it is the essential point of the exercise.”