A Daughter's Tale: The Memoir of Winston Churchill's Youngest Child Page 11

  § When I see how much changing went on, I’m not surprised we had brought May with us!

  ‖ Later she would always be called Sally. She is now Lady Ashburton.

  a Angela in fact “bolted” in the summer just before Sarah went to America to marry Vic.

  CHAPTER 6

  A Bright Life and a Darkening Horizon

  BY THE TIME I WAS RISING THIRTEEN IN 1935 I WAS TAKING AN increasing (if spasmodic) interest in the large issues which dominated Chartwell talk, dominated more and more by the rise of Hitler and the threat posed by a rearming Germany. The controversy about self-government for India had passed well over my head, although I remember on the school run sitting on bundles of pamphlets with emotive titles such as India: The Jewel in the Crown. However, the Indian question was the principal theme of the by-election in the Liverpool constituency of Wavertree (a Tory-held seat) which took place at the beginning of February 1935.

  Randolph, at twenty-three, was determined to blaze his own trail both as a journalist (at which he was very successful) and as a politician. An aggressive supporter of his father’s views, constantly drawing public attention to Winston’s continuing exclusion from the government, he now presented himself at Wavertree as an “Independent anti-India-Bill Conservative”—despite there already being an official Conservative candidate. Winston, although strongly opposed to the government’s policy of granting self-rule to India, was embarrassed by Randolph’s action, but out of loyalty spoke at his eve-of-poll meeting. The result of the election was entirely predictable: the Tory vote was split by his intervention, and the socialist candidate was the victor. Naturally, the government and Conservative mandarins alike were furious with both the Churchills—père et fils.

  During these winter months Clementine was away on her Far Eastern cruise, but Winston kept her informed about every detail of the Wavertree saga. On 31 January 1935 he wrote to her: “The whole family with the exception of Mary [it was term time] have gone up to Liverpool for the election, including Moppet. Mary is parked at the Fox’s* where she is quite happy, but I am going to make her come back here for the Sunday.”

  Although I was disappointed to miss the fun up north, I followed the campaign with my father keenly, and was thrilled by Randolph’s bold fight. But soon I too had the chance to watch and help in an election campaign much nearer home, for in March there was another by-election, this time in Norwood, south London. Again the main topic of controversy was the India Bill, which was passing through committee stage debates in the House of Commons. This time Randolph did not stand himself, but threw his noisy support behind the Independent Conservative candidate. Winston thoroughly disapproved of this further foray of Randolph’s, and did not lend him any support: in fact the two had a blazing row over the matter. However, it was of course suspected in party circles that he had his father’s approval.

  In both these political skirmishes I felt totally engaged. The finer points of the Indian argument were lost on me, but I was full of sisterly admiration for Randolph’s spirited interventions, and heartily supported his hostile campaign against the government and the Conservative party caucus, about whose defects and machinations I heard a great deal of talk at home. Indeed, I would hear a great deal more in the same vein as the thirties rolled on, for although I was growing up politically in a Conservative environment, my mother had strong Liberal leanings harking back to my father’s radical days in the early years of their marriage. I learned to distrust the National government of the day and the grandees of the Conservative party (in particular Mr. Baldwin),† and I came to have a consistently suspicious view of Conservative Central Office and all its works. These attitudes, absorbed at a most impressionable time of my life, have basically remained with me, although battened down during my years as a Conservative politician’s wife.

  At the time of the Norwood by-election Clementine was still on her travels, and again Winston kept her in touch with election news:

  The Norwood by election, of which I wrote to you in my last letter, has absorbed all the children except Mary,… [school again] … Randolph’s party consists of half a dozen of his Wavertree friends … together with Diana (whose principal occupation now is fighting by elections), Sarah (half-time with dancing) and Moppet (indefatigable).

  Eight days later he wrote again:

  Randolph has been here for the week-end and all is well between us … Mary has been roped in to the electioneering and was addressing envelopes with all the rest of our progeny and Moppet last Saturday afternoon. You never saw such a political household …

  The Norwood election resulted this time in the complete rout of the Independent Conservative (who lost his deposit), and the official candidate, Duncan Sandys, won with a satisfactory majority over the socialist.

  A romantic coda to this not very edifying contest was that, although they did not meet during the campaign, Diana observed Duncan Sandys from across the hustings: a little while later they met—and on 16 September they were married.

  IN MAY 1935 CLEMENTINE arrived home from her journeyings, which had lasted over four months and had taken her to the ends of the earth. Great was our joy—and Winston’s most of all: he had missed her so much. She arrived home just in time for the celebrations surrounding the Silver Jubilee of King George and Queen Mary. A memorable treat for me was accompanying my parents to Westminster Hall on 9 May to witness the King and Queen receiving loyal addresses from both Houses of Parliament—my first “state occasion”! Going alone with either my father or mother—perhaps especially with my father—to some special event was always a great privilege, and these events have always stood out vividly in my mind over the years. I clearly remember when I was nine being taken by Papa to see Noël Coward’s Cavalcade, which opened in London in September 1931. It was a wonderful play—the first example of an “upstairs-downstairs” saga—and with his unerring touch Coward struck a chord with the public in this year of political and economic crisis, which saw the formation of a National government under Ramsay MacDonald in August. People flocked to see the play; my mother’s diary records that she had tickets booked for three performances during that winter. I felt tremendously grown-up being taken to the theatre à deux with my father. After the play we dined at the Savoy Grill on cutlets and ice cream, and were visited at our table by Duff and Diana Cooper (whom I knew already as they were regular visitors to Chartwell) and “Bendor,” the Duke of Westminster.

  Winston loved circuses, and he and Clementine would regularly be invited by the Mills brothers to the large luncheon which preceded the opening of the Bertram Mills Circus season at Olympia. I too came to be included in the invitation, so that would make another lovely treat for me just before Christmas; when my mother was away, my father would take me on my own.

  Altogether I had a lovely life, based at Chartwell, with my animals and my local friends, riding (at local riding schools), tennis and swimming, and my skiing expeditions. My mother thought I should learn to play golf, and in the winter term of 1937 I had a course of lessons from the professional at the Limpsfield Golf Club: however, as I failed to get off the first tee in twelve sessions, it was decided by common consent of my mother, the “pro,” and myself that my athletic prowess did not lie in this field.

  In my letters to my mother in the New Year of 1935, while she was on her Far Eastern cruise, I relived my social and sporting life—and rereading them now makes me quite breathless! In the first three weeks of January I had been to four evening parties (some ending after midnight), paid a visit to London (staying in the flat in Morpeth Mansions, near Westminster Cathedral, which my parents had bought at the beginning of the decade), and seen two plays, Toad of Toad Hall and the pantomime at Drury Lane, Cinderella—what hardy perennials these have proved! I was becoming quite clothes-conscious, writing to Mama on 4 January: “Tomorrow I go to a party 8–12.30! I shall wear my blue ¾ length frock, because I wore my long white one last year at their party.” I later reported triumphantly: “Before supper the
re was dancing, and I was in every single dance!” Many daylight hours were filled with Pony Club rallies, lectures, and meets. A P.S. to one letter reads: “The last week of the holidays I have been going to the Stables at 8 every morning to learn all about Stable work.” (Little seems to have changed in over half a century, judging from my grand-children’s holiday activities—except I’m sure present-day teenage parties are more sophisticated.)

  Nana at this time was inaugurating some financial training for me: “Now comes the great News! I have started my ALLOWANCE!!!!!!!” I wrote to my mother on 4 January 1935.

  Nana keeps the keys of a cash box, in which is my?’s allowance, I draw cheques for the amount I want, and she cashs [sic] them, Nana also has a pass-book, her name is

  Whyte’s Bank LTD

  3 Nursery Villas

  Nursery S.1.

  My Auditors, who cheque [sic] my accounts once a month are

  Tally & Hambone Ltd (Miss Tallents & Miss Hamblin)

  [the secretaries at Chartwell]

  Office House,

  Back Square (Stairs)

  N.1.

  Perhaps prompted by this new formality in my financial arrangements, I seem to have become quite commercially conscious about now. I had embarked on breeding budgerigars—inspired and organized, I imagine, by Nana. My flock inhabited a range of aviaries at the top of the orchard; the birds were azure blue and brilliant green, and fortunately they were not near the house, for they made a fearful din; but they were certainly very pretty, and formed part of the after-luncheon Chartwell tour. There must have been about a hundred of them, carefully segregated. Feeding and cleaning them took quite a slice of my time, as did the organization of their mating, nesting, and breeding arrangements. Whatever commercial sense lurked in my makeup (and I have to say it never at any later time demonstrated its presence) was aroused by my budgerigars, and someone suggested to me that I might turn an honest penny by selling breeding pairs. Launching into business, I had a smart letterhead devised—The Happy Zoo—and a formal receipt stamp. I fear I must have importuned guests: I certainly have a receipted bill sent back to me years later by Lady Gladwyn (Cynthia Jebb). She and Lord Gladwyn had lunched at Chartwell, and departed with a pair of budgies in a box: she kindly said she remembered that the birds gave entire satisfaction. I also evidently traded with members of my family. Writing to Winston, who was in the South of France, in September 1936 after a visit to his constituency, Clementine recounted: “The next day I went over to Woodford & opened a Fête … I took over one of Mary’s budgerigars in a lovely green cage as a present for Sir James Hawkey’s little grand-daughter.‡ That was a great success.”

  I don’t think there were many takers for my goats, although I gave one or two kids away to “good homes.” The original two acquired from gypsies by my father, plus their progeny, made a mini-herd of about ten, and they involved me, it would appear from the following letter, in a practical form of barter. Mr. Kay, who lived at Bessels Green about six miles from Chartwell, was a conductor on the Green Line bus which served the Westerham–Bessels Green–Sevenoaks route; in his spare time he bred goats, and was the owner of a very handsome (and very stinky) billy goat. I do not know how I first made contact with Mr. Kay—I think it was through one of the gardeners at Chartwell—but I certainly remember riding on his bus in order to discuss my goats’ matrimonial affairs: as a result his billy goat would from time to time pay a courtly visit to my nanny goats with entirely satisfactory results. Forty-five years later, dear Mr. Kay sent my husband a letter of mine written in the spring of 1939 (as the world was teetering towards Armageddon), saying he thought I would like to see it: needless to say, I was enchanted to have that happy, carefree time recalled so whimsically. On my “official” writing paper I had written:

  THE HAPPY ZOO,

  CHARTWELL,

  WESTERHAM, KENT.

  APRIL 4TH 1939

  Dear Mr Kay,

  I must apologise for not writing to you sooner about my now large family of goats; but what with their arrival and school and the crisis§ and one thing and another I have had very little time.

  The goat family is at present:

  Mary—triplets—2 nannies & 1 billy

  Milly—twins—2 nannies

  Molly—twins—1 nanny & 1 billy.

  They are all very pretty kids, and seem strong and healthy … I am especially pleased that there are only two billies, because I do not want to keep any of them. I understand from Mr. Jackson that you would like to have any billies, and I should be delighted for you to have them if you still want them.

  I hope that you have had as much success as I have had; please come over sometime and see my farm; perhaps we could arrange a day?

  I feel I must thank you again for all the help you gave me in the autumn, I should never have been able to have found a billy without your assistance.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mary Churchill

  But while my life was filled with all these innocent occupations and amusements, and life at home seemed so ample and carefree—as indeed it was for me—Clementine’s prediction that Chartwell would prove too great a burden financially had only too soon started to fulfil itself. In 1925—within a year of their having moved in—my parents were discussing the idea of letting the house for a few months every year. This plan proved impractical, but in the winter after the Wall Street Crash of 1929, when Winston sustained a great financial loss, Chartwell was run down to a low ebb: the only room left open in the “big house” was Winston’s study (so that he could work at weekends), and my parents, Nana, and I squeezed into Wellstreet Cottage, the small house Winston had recently built overlooking the kitchen garden. Originally intended for a married butler, the cottage became a timely retreat for us in this lean period: I thought it great fun and very cosy. And one winter—probably 1931, when Winston, Clementine, and Diana were all in the United States for over three months, and Sarah, Nana, and I were on our own for the Christmas holidays at Chartwell—to save on heating and servants the ground-floor rooms were shut up and swathed in dust sheets, while the dining room downstairs divided nicely into a most comfortable sitting-room-cum-dining-room, which made an excellent winter arrangement with so few of us at home.

  Various other changes were made at various times in (largely unsuccessful) attempts to economize: Inches, our very nice butler, departed in the spring of 1937, my mother explaining in her reference for him that the reason for his leaving was that they were getting a parlour maid instead (who would, of course, be paid less). That year must have been a bad one financially: writing to Clementine (who was in St. Moritz skiing) on 2 February 1937, Winston had reported:

  I think we had a very cheap month here. The wine has been very strictly controlled and little drunk. We get our fuel in for the central heating in five ton batches … The last lot lasted three weeks instead of a fortnight, although the weather has been raw and generally damnable. The telephones showed a marked reduction …

  Selling Chartwell was very much in their minds: a possible buyer was “nibbling,” the estate agent reported. Winston continued:

  … If I could see £25,000 I should close with it. If we do not get a good price we can quite well carry on for a year or two more. But no good offer should be refused, having regard for the fact that our children are almost all flown, and my life is probably in its closing decade …

  How strangely that last sentence reads with hindsight!

  I was, of course, oblivious to the details and stress of these economic worries—but I came to know that Chartwell might have to be sold, and I minded very much. I used to take my goats for long walks up into the woods from where I could look back across the lake to the house—and where I sat down on a log and cried bitterly. For me Chartwell was the Garden of Eden: I was intensely aware of natural beauty and, like my father, never tired of gazing out over the panoramic view of the Weald of Kent from our hilltop, with its changing lights and shadows; or of the beauty of the orchard at Cha
rtwell with the daffodils in the early mornings when I and my animals were the only ones about, and the dew was on the grass. These were intense and joyous experiences for me.

  Throughout these years I read a lot. The What Katy Did books which I enjoyed in my early teens were succeeded by Baroness Orczy’s thrilling tale of the Scarlet Pimpernel—and of course I swooned with love for Leslie Howard in the title role of the film. Nana had read to me Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities at a much earlier age, and I had sobbed at Sydney Carton’s noble sacrifice on the guillotine for love. I read with avidity Margaret Irwin’s historical novels The Winter Queen, Royal Flush, and The Stranger Prince; I also read some serious nonfiction, including a life of the prison reformer Elizabeth Fry.

  But undoubtedly the book which made the deepest impression on me at this time was Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain, published in 1933 and given to me when I was fourteen or fifteen by one of the mistresses at the Manor House (who was, incidentally, a Quaker). I have just read this wonderful book again—and it has moved me as much as it did over seventy years ago. It is not only gripping as the autobiography of a young woman from a sheltered middle-class background who left a hard-won place at Somerville College, Oxford, to become a VAD nurse, in which role she encountered at close quarters the horrific casualties of trench warfare and sustained bitter personal bereavements; it is also an elegy for a whole generation of young men who were swept away, the loss of whose talents and energies was an invisible but very real impoverishment of our national life in the postwar decades. Vera Brittain became a convinced pacifist, and was a prolific writer and lecturer, strongly supporting the League of Nations in its earliest years; at first a Liberal, she later joined the Labour party.

  Testament of Youth made me question for the first time the politics I heard expounded at home—although I cannot recall that I was very brave in voicing my doubts about rearmament! Nonetheless, it made me think harder about the issues of the day and try to test (if only to myself) opinions I had hitherto automatically accepted as right. But the “home” arguments struck a natural chord with me—and I heard powerful protagonists!