A Daughter's Tale: The Memoir of Winston Churchill's Youngest Child Read online

  So cousin Moppet, or Nana—as she was to all of us children—was recruited, and came to our family in October 1921. Randolph was then in his second year at Sandroyd, a preparatory school in Surrey, and the two girls were day pupils at Notting Hill High School. After my arrival on the scene nearly a year later, Nana’s attention was largely focused on myself: she was enchanted to be in charge of a baby again, and with Randolph and Diana rapidly outgrowing the confines of the nursery, her dominion principally embraced Sarah and the “Baby Bud.” Nana, while observing her professional position in the household, was nevertheless from the start on a different footing from all the previous nannies, as Clementine’s first cousin and the social equal of her employers: when I was christened, she was my godmother.

  I cannot think of any reason for my being named Mary. My only godfather, Victor Cazalet,* considerably annoyed my mother by suggesting I should be called “Victoria,” and went so far as to have that name engraved on the elegant pale blue velvet case which enclosed his present to me (the almost statutory christening gift at that time: an “add-a-pearl” necklace—to which the recipient’s benefactors were meant to do just that at regular intervals). I only discovered this fontside disagreement years later when, on examining the velvet case, I made out that MARY had been very firmly superimposed on an only partially successful erasure of VICTORIA. I was rather sorry; I felt I would have liked to be Victoria (Vicky to personal friends, of course). But plain old Mary had clearly been under discussion for some time before my christening at the end of November, because in a letter from school on 1 October Randolph wrote: “What is the baby going to be christened? I do hope it will be Mary.…”

  A “Benjamin’s” life is one of contrasts, especially when there is a wide age gap between oneself and older siblings, as in my case: Sarah was nearly eight years old, Randolph eleven, and Diana thirteen when I appeared on the family scene. One finds oneself alternately in the roles of new cuddly toy and real little bore—to be discarded rapidly when a more pressing or suitable-to-age attraction presents itself. Soon after our family’s arrival at Chartwell, our father caused to be constructed in the first fork of the great lime in the front drive a wonderful tree house—from which, of course, I was excluded. Access to this aerial retreat was by means of a rope ladder, which would be swiftly pulled up to preserve the privacy of the members of this elite club. The older children and their visiting cousins would spend hours aloft, and I remember at age four or five wandering disconsolately round the tree, gazing up, trying to catch the loudly whispered secrets and yearning to know the cause for the gales of uproarious laughter, quite often punctuated by stern commands down to me to “Go and find Nana.” I remember I very often took refuge in the office, whose windows looked out on the drive, where I found delightful (and apparently appreciative) company in the secretaries, who indulgently allowed me to play with the typewriters and pinch treasury tags and paper clips: I think they must have sometimes wished for the protection of a rope ladder too! Presently Nana would appear and bear me off to my quarters.

  The nursery wing had been purposely built as part of the major construction work in the rehabilitation of Chartwell. Comprising three floors and an attic, it faced due south, overlooking the gardens and the beautiful Weald. On the ground floor, a long room combined both schoolroom and nursery life: there was a large open log fireplace (where we made buttered toast), and glazed doors opened out on to the garden. Behind this big front room were a bathroom, and a kitchen/pantry which produced elevenses, teas (delicious drop scones made on the stovetop), and our various pets’ meals; luncheon and Nana’s supper were brought from the main kitchen by the nurserymaid.

  The upper floors were connected by a very steep, narrow staircase, with blue linoleum-covered treads “nosed” with thick rubber. At first I scrambled laboriously down and up this precipice, but was soon negotiating it at high speed, taking two and three steps at a time: I had some horrific tumbles.

  On the first floor Sarah had her room—a lovely bed-sitter (evolving over the years from schoolgirl’s den to debutante’s “bower”) which also communicated via a door onto the Pink Terrace with Mama’s Blue Sitting Room. Diana and Randolph from the first had their bedrooms in the main part of the house. On the second floor was the night nursery, with its adjoining bathroom: this was Nana’s and my abode until I was about ten, when I was promoted to the attic and my first bed-sitter.

  Only vestigial traces of the nursery staircase remain now, as sometime in the midthirties, when I was in my teens and had melded into grown-up domestic life, Nana and I migrated to the top floor of the main house. Then my father pierced through the thick wall and took possession of the former night nursery for his bedroom. Later still, after the war, my mother colonized her former sitting room as a bedroom, penetrating into Sarah’s former room on the same level to create a dressing room and bathroom. I explain all this in some detail, because today thousands of visitors troop through the house, some of whom may read this book and be puzzled by the present configuration of the rooms and the disappearance of the nursery wing which figured so strongly in my childhood life.

  If the nursery wing was my “castle” (of which undoubtedly I was the “princess”), it was also the base from which I sallied forth into the wider world. To a small child it was mountainous territory, as Chartwell, being constructed on the side of a steep hill, is a house of confusingly many levels. Unlike most nursery quarters one reads of, mine were based on the garden floor, and I started my daily forays on the same level as the servants’ hall, pantry, and kitchen. After calling on my numerous friends in those regions, I would then start on my uphill scramble to the upper floors—probably first visiting my mother, who, adorned with curlers and hairnet, face liberally greased, would usually be ensconced in bed, penned in by her breakfast tray or hidden behind The Times. I always remember a warm welcome, though at this point it took the physical form of a wave rather than a cuddle. Here I would remain while a succession of “callers” made their appearance: her lady’s maid; a secretary with a message; or Papa, arriving suddenly and unceremoniously, clad in his (extremely mini) silk vest/nightshirt, clutching his copy of The Times, and usually protesting at some part of the leading article. This he would discuss with Mummie (who had usually already noticed the offending passage) before departing again, like a tempestuous gust of wind, for his own study-bedroom along the passage. I always, if visible, received en passant a warm hug or embrace during this visitation. A more ceremonious interlude was the daily conference with the cook, who, in spotless white overall and apron, bearing the menu book, would draw up a chair and seat herself at the bedside. During the long—and to me infinitely boring—dialogue which ensued, I would disappear from view under the desk (I was a lion in my den); or I would clamber onto the lower shelf of the great oak double-doored cupboard, retreating and burrowing into folds of satin underclothes—I remember how deliciously the silky gloom smelled. Needless to say, successive lady’s maids greatly deplored this activity of “little Miss Mary”—and I don’t remember liking any of them very much: a generally disapproving race I deemed them to be. On looking now at the cupboard (still in its exact place in my mother’s bedroom), I realize I must have been very small to have hidden there, and that my freedom to roam at will all over the house began at a very early age.

  But, as with all states of “liberty,” there were certain strict rules. On my parents’ floor, Papa’s study-bedroom was the “Holy of Holies,” and indeed that end of the landing was sacrosanct, and a “no-noise area”: I remember hearing the “Big Ones” getting fearful wiggings for noise (especially whistling). In order to avoid this “no-go zone” I would invariably ascend to this floor by the back staircase (narrow and blue linoleumed, as in the nursery wing), from where I could reach my mother’s room without trespassing on forbidden territory. By the same route I could also gain access to the visitors’ rooms: they were meant to be out of bounds, but I seem to recall making sly visits when I saw the breakfast tr
ays going up, and being the appreciative recipient of titbits (peeled peach segments and spoonfuls of sugar dunked in coffee were my favourite perks).

  Downstairs, a general admonition was not to “bother the servants.” This was open to a rather wide interpretation, but two areas were strictly off-limits to me: the servants’ hall and the kitchen. The first ban was to protect the privacy of the occupants; the second was in part for obvious safety reasons (especially valid in those days when the kitchen was dominated by a large coal range, on which stood the perpetual huge stockpot, and large pans of boiling fat sizzled away). But the prime reason was that the cook was a potentate, addressed always as “Mrs.”—She who must be approached at all times with care; She who must not be ruffled (and cooks, I learned, were perennially prone to ruffledom). As far as I knew, the only two people who had access to this sanctuary (apart from the footman fetching and carrying dishes) were my mother and the butler—another power to be conciliated, and always addressed by the children and other staff as “Mr.”

  In fact the servants were, I realize in retrospect, extremely kind and indulgent. The pantry staff would stand me on a wine case, wrap me in tea towels, and allow me to “help” them with the washing up: I would take liberal scoops of “soft soap” (like dark Vaseline) from a huge tin, creating a mountainous lather in the wooden sink (no stainless steel then), and proceed with this delectable task until I was so thoroughly soaked as to have to be dispatched back to the nursery.

  One important domestic ceremonial, common to most private houses, was the stirring of the Christmas puddings, which always took place fairly late in November on the Sunday when the collect begins, “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people …,” consequently known as “Stir-up Sunday.” The great bowl full of rich mixture stood on the kitchen table most of that day, and everyone (exceptionally) was permitted to call in to give a stir with a huge wooden spoon; one was meant to make a wish at the same time. In my early years I would be hoisted onto the table, where, wielding the spoon with both hands and some help, I would have great trouble in selecting quickly just one wish from my long and varied running list of desires.

  I suppose I must have been a bit older before I was allowed to roam freely by myself in the gardens, with their many hazards: but Nana was not a Scotswoman for nothing, and moreover daily outdoor exercise was most certainly a cardinal rule in a Norlander’s training. Suitably clad for whatever the weather—wet or fine, warm or bitter—together we would set off. Chartwell’s gardens offer endless opportunities for fun and freedom for children (as mine would in their turn discover), for there are wide-open spaces, and steep banks to roll down, and streams and lakes, and trees to climb. But I think it was more full of possibilities for fun and adventure in my childhood days, for then so much was still in the making.

  Nana and I, with the dogs, would head straight for whatever works were in progress. Perhaps Papa was building a wall: when I was bigger I would volunteer to be his “bricklayer’s mate,” as did Sarah, and hand him the bricks—but this usually ended for me in tears as, soon becoming bored and inattentive, I would drop a brick on my plimsolled foot (I can assure those who have not had this experience that it is a most painful one). Papa would be vaguely sympathetic, but was engrossed in his task and thought me clumsy, and I would retreat howling to the nursery. For now, though, Nana and I would just make a social call, noting progress, and if I was lucky, old Kurn (the retired bricklayer who assisted my father and taught him his skill) would let me have a careful stir with his trowel of the pudding-mixture-like cement.

  In the winter, more fun was to be had if Papa and his minions were wooding and making a bonfire, for Chartwell at this stage had many trees and much scrubland to be cleared. My father’s task force would probably consist of the ubiquitous Kurn and a gardener taken off his proper task (this used to annoy my mother greatly), additionally assisted by any of the older children and possibly the literary assistant of the day, plus any stalwart guests. We all had our appointed tasks (I being allowed to cast suitably sized twigs on the blaze); Nana would fetch large potatoes from the kitchen and bake them in the embers—they tasted rather charcoally, but were delectably comforting to hold in one’s freezing hands. Hot drinks would be brought out, and it was all the greatest fun.

  Snow brought the possibility of tobogganing. Chartwell is ideally suited for this, with slopes graded to every degree of daring, but snow conditions suitable for “winter sports” occur so randomly in England that one always seems to be caught out and ill-prepared: however, large wooden pantry trays made wonderful substitute toboggans for those without the genuine article. If freeze-ups persisted long and hard enough, there was of course also skating on the lakes: none of my family was particularly expert, and I remember chiefly the wearisome doing up of ill-fitting boots, and the terrors of cracking ice and warning shrieks.

  Springtime and summer brought their own train of activities and pleasures. We picked snowdrops and then primroses, Nana showing me how to tie the bunches with odd bits of wool from her knitting bag. Actually my fault of impatience made me a pretty poor picker—I think I left it mostly to Nana and Gladys, the nurserymaid, and amused myself by throwing sticks for the dogs.

  At all seasons our walks often took us right down the hill to the farmyard. Our property ended just beyond the orchard, where on a level stretch were several service cottages, the garages, the old Victorian stables, and, later, a model woodshed designed and largely constructed by my father. The farm at the very bottom of the hill (which he acquired after the war) at this time belonged to the Jansen family, who lived in the very beautiful Queen Anne house—Mariners—about a quarter of a mile away. The farm manager was kindly disposed to us, as indeed were the Jansens, and we were allowed to visit the farmyard and its inhabitants; we were also allowed the freedom of their woods for walking and picnicking. I was much in favour during the lambing season, as I undertook to bottle-feed any orphans. The lambkins would be brought up from the farm and a wire-netting enclosure constructed for them in the small orchard below the potting sheds. (This area is now a large terrace with seats, commanding a panoramic view over the Weald, my mother after the war having swept away the greenhouses and potting sheds to a less prominent situation.) I think we sometimes nurtured four or five lambs at a time. Needless to say, these sweet orphans—mercifully for them—did not depend entirely on my attentions: I think probably the head gardener’s wife was my “colleague” in lamb rearing. But this was a great and regular feature of springtime life at Chartwell.

  As my legs grew longer so did our walks, which soon included the Belt (the protecting arms of beech woods which enclosed our lovely valley). Sarah and I discovered an old dogs’ cemetery; we uncovered the gravestones and with pointed sticks cleaned the lettering, figuring out the names of dear companions of generations of the Campbell-Colquhoun family who had owned Chartwell before us. One epitaph was particularly touching: “The faithful guardian of the pram.”

  Beyond the farmyard the dirt road led through fields to Puddle-dock, a group of cottages at the bottom of the steep and narrow road climbing up to the famous beauty spot of Toy’s Hill: but at this stage we had reached our limit, and turned back homewards through fields which in those days were a hop garden. Many of the oast houses (including the ones at Chartwell Farm), now redeveloped as attractive homes, still stand as reminders of what in those days was the principal industry for this region. A great event each summer was the descent on all the hop fields of thousands of pickers. Now, commercial crops are largely harvested by migrant workers; then, whole families from the East End of London, along with bands of gypsy families, would come year after year to the same farms to pick the hops. The Londoners were accommodated in custom-built sheds, somewhat like army-barrack dormitories; the gypsies lived in their caravans. The work was very hard, but everyone had a good time. I was a bit too young to share in all this, and somewhat overcome by such hordes of strangers. Many years later, when Christopher and
I were living at Chartwell Farm House, I found the remains of the foundations of the hop pickers’ huts buried in the woodland opposite our house.

  I HAVE ALREADY MENTIONED the dogs that accompanied Nana and me on our walks, and animals were a very important part of my life from the beginning. My father loved animals—this was a strong bond between us—whereas my mother tolerated them. Largely owing to the peripatetic nature of their life, it was not until after the war that my father had a dog of his own—a chocolate poodle—but he shared fully in the dramas which inevitably erupted from time to time involving my various pets.

  There was animal life in abundance outside the house: goldfish in the water garden; geese, ornamental ducks, and black and white swans (the latter perpetually at war with each other) on the lakes; and a series of farm animals which usually proved unsatisfactory from a practical point of view. Winston’s letters to Clementine from Chartwell in any of her absences were full of events relating to the animals’ lives. Particularly vexatious were the regular predations of the foxes, which murdered swans with distressing regularity, despite elaborate measures taken to protect them. In all these animals and birds I took the liveliest interest, and even in my earliest letters to my father would report on them, as well as on my own nursery animals.