“Perhaps. But they say that ‘while Byrnes roams, Truman fiddles.’”
Churchill chuckled at his little joke.
“Remember, he is an instrument of the President, and Truman, for some reason, is wary of standing up to the Soviets. Frankly, his attitude is baffling.”
“Surely the Soviets don’t want war?” asked Luddington. “After what they’ve gone through?”
Churchill eyed the man with some curiosity, and then resigned himself to the present reality. Luddington was merely echoing the typical appeasement line that was in vogue on both sides of the Atlantic.
“Oh no,” he said with sarcasm. “I’m sure they want ‘peace’—a piece of Poland, a piece of Czechoslovakia, a piece of Hungary, tomorrow, the world. Remember that one. What the Soviets want is to ‘Bolshevize’ the Balkans.”
He turned to Sarah, the brief dispute forgotten.
“Do you like that Sarah?”
Sarah shrugged.
“Father, do you think we’ve kept our visitors too long?”
“Not at all, sir,” Luddington said.
Churchill nodded.
“Sarah is hinting that it’s time for me to contemplate the cosmic infinities horizontally.”
“Father means his daily nap.”
“Yes,” said Churchill. “One of the two splendid Spanish contributions to the betterment of the civilized state of man, which I embraced in my early years as a military observer in Spain. One is the siesta and the other the Havana.”
Churchill smothered the remains of his cigar in the ashtray and rose to bid farewell to his visitors. They exited with the amenities of thanks to Sarah, as Churchill ascended the marble staircase.
In his bedroom, Churchill changed into pajamas for his afternoon nap. It amused him that Sarah had cleverly persuaded him to accept the invitation to speak at the small college in the Midwest.
But then she did have a point. Truman and he had last met at Potsdam. His sense of history clicked in. Perhaps this could be the pulpit he had wished for.
He picked up the phone. He needed to talk to Clemmie. Luckily, he found her at Chartwell, where she had just arrived from London. Hearing her voice always filled him with joy.
“Oink, oink,” Churchill imitated a porcine grunt.
“Meow, meow,” answered the voice of his wife.
In his intimate moments with his wife, Churchill would often assume the role of a pig to his wife’s cat.
“Hello, pussycat — do you miss my stroking?”
Then he recited a children’s rhyme:
He continued, “What do you think, Clemmie, of a cat and a pig going across the sea to America? Don’t worry, it will be all paid for. I’ve just been invited by President Truman to speak in some college in Missouri. And, of course, the usual honorary degree.”
“Missouri?”
“A backwater, I agree. But it does offer an opportunity.”
In his mind, he was already composing what he would say.
“We could go early and spend some time with that Canadian friend. You know, that Colonel Clarke of Montreal, who has a winter home in Miami. They’ve always wanted us to visit them in Florida.”
“Splendid! Do us both wonders. But I will have to forgo Missouri. Chartwell does need work, darling. After all, Chequers will be Mr. Attlee’s now.” She paused. “As for Number 10, we are now officially vacated.”
“Did you leave all the silver intact?” Churchill teased.
“Absolutely. But I did take the dozen cases of Pol Roger.”
“Ours or theirs?”
“Theirs. I paid hard pounds for it, darling.”
“Farewell to the trappings of office.”
They giggled like teenagers, after which came a long pause. He could hear his wife’s breathing. The silence always meant a worrisome cogitation on her part.
“What is it, darling?”
“This Missouri visit.”
“What of it?”
“I’m concerned, Winston. You no longer have the round-the-clock security afforded by the government. I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course, darling.”
“Take Thompson.”
W. H. Thompson was Churchill’s personal bodyguard during his days as First Lord of the Admiralty and throughout the war. Churchill had brought him out of retirement from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch in 1939. He had served him with extraordinary efficiency, valor, and skill through many a touchy situation during the war and then retired yet again after the war. Despite the normal protection afforded a prime minister, Thompson, with his sixth sense and eagle eye and uncanny prescience, had saved his life more than once during those trying days, a fact that had been assiduously kept from the British public but not from his wife.
“Really, darling. I’m no longer Prime Minister. Who would bother to want to harm this little piggy?”
“Grant me the favor, darling. Allow me the peace of mind.”
“Clemmie, really. The West is no longer populated with armed cowboys. Besides, the President has a Secret Service detail. They will be protective of us both.”
“I know all that, darling. Still….”
“You’re worrying unnecessarily,” Churchill interrupted. “There is no shooting war going on.”
“Please, darling. It’s a small favor. Besides, he knows you well, all your little eccentricities.”
“Now really, Clemmie. I am a perfectly proper English gentleman — traditional and quite normal to the core.”
“Of course, darling,” she giggled. “Let’s leave it at that. But do take Thompson. Please.”
“What of the expense?” he asked shrewdly.
Thompson would have to be paid for by the Churchills. Money was a mania with Clementine. Her grandfather, the Earl of Airlie, had left his wife for a younger woman. The resultant strained economic circumstances had forced Clementine to work as a governess to make ends meet.
“Hang the expense, darling. Call it an investment in our future.”
Hearing that, Churchill knew he had lost the argument. Besides, Clementine, like him, was never one to retreat. Faced with her resolve, he knew exactly when surrender was necessary.
“Your wish is my command, little pussycat. Just give me a little meow. I miss your purr.”
They chatted briefly for a few more moments, and then parted with kisses.
Churchill lay back in the bed. A conversation with Clemmie always lifted his spirits. He pictured her at Chartwell, the chatelaine of the establishment, forever puttering, decorating, and beautifying their lair. He loved the place.
It was his former house in Kent, which had been reluctantly sold when he had become Prime Minister. As PM, he had the use of Chequers, the official suburban retreat in Buckinghamshire.
A group of Churchill’s friends had just bought back Chartwell. He had bought the redbrick Victorian house in 1922 without telling his wife. The purchase had been the occasion of one of his few arguments with Clementine. She had counted in her mind the cost of necessary improvements to the nineteenth-century manor house, plus the later costs of entertaining when she’d have to play hostess.
Actually, it was one of the few arguments he had ever won over the former Clementine Hozier. He smiled, thinking about her. She had looked like a more elegant version of Ethel Barrymore, the American actress, who had once caught his interest. The stately feminine member of America’s premier acting family had rebuffed his advances saying, “There’s is only room for one of us on center stage.”