July 26 and August 15, 1914
Overstrand, England
Any residual concerns over my dynamic with Winston fade as the threat of war mounts throughout Europe. Worries over the long-reaching impact of Winston’s demands on my life seem petty—particularly since Winston’s needs are critical to the survival of our country. As German hostility takes firm hold, Winston, wearing his hat of first lord of the admiralty, finalizes the naval preparations that will allow Britain to prevail in the war to come. And so, I surrender my apprehensions, allowing Winston and me to form an unassailable unit, one that has weathered the insidious tempest of Violet and emerged stronger than before.
War is inevitable. The June 28 gunshot that killed Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, has begun a chain of cataclysmic events that, Winston has forewarned me, will undoubtedly lead to war, on the continent at least. Understanding that normal life may disappear as quickly as the single shot of that rifle, the sort of normal life I never had in my fatherless youth, I want to make a wellspring of memories from which our children can draw in the days ahead. Days when their father may be absent for long months, working in perilous circumstances. Days when he might not return at all.
We rent a beachside cottage at the Norfolk seaside, in a resort town called Overstrand. With Nanny and a maid in tow, the children and I settle into the six-bedroom Pear Tree Cottage, so named for the pear tree that is espaliered along one wall, which hugs a low, craggy cliff and stares out at the sea like a fisherman’s wife. I’d arranged for Goonie and her two children to rent another property on the estate, a sweet house called Beehive Cottage that sits on the opposite end of the lawn. I know they will serve as another draw for Winston to join us whenever the political situation allows, particularly when Jack takes his military leave as well.
I am limited in my activities, because I am pregnant again. The restrictions, in truth, are self-imposed. I could not bear to suffer through another miscarriage and the aftermath, so instead of my usual pace, I spend long, lazy days at the beach with my children, and I surprise myself with how much I enjoy this time. During the weekdays, I dig in the sand, point out fishing boats and gulls to the children, and insist that we dip our toes in the bracing North Sea waters. For the first time, I relish the slow minutes with my small charges and delight in their affection. But by the weekends, this celebration of the maternal wanes, and I begin to long for news and the touch of my husband.
“March on, children,” Winston, pants rolled knee-high, calls back to Diana. She dutifully shoulders far more equipment than her five-year-old body should be able to carry. Three-year-old Randolph, by contrast, collapses in a fit of tears at the very suggestion that he might be responsible for his own sand pail. I wish the disparity could be explained by the difference in their ages, but I fear it is attributable to the differences in their temperaments.
I take up the rear of this busy brigade, trudging behind not only my husband and daughter but also Goonie and her children. I think about the expression on their faces when Winston arrived earlier today. When we first spotted an enormous vessel docked off the coast, its steam pipe pouring clouds of billowy gray into the otherwise cloudless azure sky, Goonie, the children, and I simply stared, marveling at the size of the ship in comparison to the fishing boats, bobbing nearby like bath toys. Only when a tiny rowboat dropped from the ship’s side into the swelling sea and two men rowed its oars furiously toward the shore did we all scream with recognition and delight. The ship was the Enchantress, and one of the men was Winston.
I watch as my husband builds a fortress with the children. Once the castle, ramparts, towers, and moat are complete, the children scream and run in circles around the creation, assuming various warlike poses. Winston steps back to admire his handiwork and wraps his arm around my thickening waist, lightly draped with a robe over my modest bathing costume.
Rubbing his hand on my belly, he asks, “How are you faring, dear one?”
I turn into his chest. “Bearing up, Pug. But I miss you terribly. And of course, I worry.”
He kisses the top of my head. His voice is thick with regret when he next speaks. “It will be some time before I can return to Overstrand, my kitten. If at all.”
“What do you mean? We rented Pear Tree Cottage for the entire summer, and you promised you’d visit every weekend that was not mission critical.”
“It seems that we have reached the mission critical stage.”
I pull away from him just enough to look into his eyes. “So soon? What’s happening?”
I know that, for the better part of the summer, our foreign secretary has been working to prevent Britain’s involvement in a war. This has required unusually tricky diplomacy, as Britain is part of the Triple Entente, and tensions have been mounting between Germany on one side and France and Russia on the other. But I’d believed that a balance had been struck and that Britain’s entry into the war might be avoided for the summer.
“My kitten, I fear that the upcoming week will bring events to a head. I believe that—despite efforts to negotiate—Austria-Hungary will declare war on Serbia, which will undoubtedly lead to Russia mobilizing its army to help the Serbs, and Germany declaring war on Russia to help the Austro-Hungarians.”
“No!” I exclaim.
He pulls me back into his embrace. “I’m sorry, Cat, but I believe so. And it won’t stop there. Germany will likely want to bring Russia’s ally France into the fray by attacking via neutral Belgium. And even though the Cabinet is split on the acceptability of war with Germany, I believe that invasion will not be one we can ignore or negotiate our way around.”
“Your intelligence is solid?”
“Impeccable.”
I know he is right, just as surely as I know that helping France defend against Germany’s invasion is the morally correct choice. If Winston’s intelligence proves right and Germany does indeed attack Belgium—providing the Germans a direct route to France via the countryside and also to England through nearby ports—then our country must declare war as well. And my husband must be among those leading the charge.
My limbs begin to tremble. I try to steady the shaking, as I do not want him to think I am unable to bear the weight of this decision. Winston cannot help but feel it. He tightens his arms around me, whispering, “We will prevail, Cat. These past thirty months, I’ve ensured that we have the mightiest navy, well able to conquer the Germans. The fighting should be over by Christmas.”
His words don’t comfort me. It matters not that Britain’s fleet is fierce but that my husband will be at its center. But I know what Winston needs of me privately: unshakable faith in his ability to lead. I also know the public face he needs the lord admiral’s wife to show the world: confidence. And he will get what he needs.
I press my lips together and smile at him. “I know, my love. Just as I know you will lead that fleet to victory.”
He nods at me, and I see a spark of exhilaration in his eyes at the coming controversy. Does he imagine that, through this war, he’ll match the military feats of his beloved ancestor, the first Duke of Marlborough? “Exactly.”
“The children and I will return to London with you. As a show of our support.” Despite my pregnant state and my fears, I feel mounting excitement at returning to London and becoming swept up in the wartime tide. We will be amid the making of history.
“No, my darling. You and the children must stay here. I need you to prove to the people of England that we can continue with our lives, that we need not fear.” He releases me, staring into my eyes. “I must away now, Kitten. There’s no need for tears. Triumph is inevitable.” Then he kisses me.
I watch as he hugs Diana and Randolph in turn, then his brother’s family. We gather at the seashore, laughing and cheering as he rows back out to the Enchantress. Then we grow silent, understanding that this leave-taking is unlike the rest. This leave-taking could be the last.
* * *
Within days, Winston’s predictions begin to prove accurate, and by August 4, Britain is at war. A desperation builds within me, and I experience an impulse to abandon the seaside and rush to Winston’s side, to offer him the support and advice I know he needs during this time. Inexplicably, I also imagine London to be a bastion of safety, safer than this rather rickety seaside town, and I worry about my brother, Bill, readying for conflict on board a battleship, and Winston’s brother, Jack, who is posted to the Second Division.
One restless evening, I very nearly ignore Winston’s directive to stay in Overstrand and begin packing for our departure, but then our housemaid returns from her night off with curious news. A movie trailer at a local theater admonishes holiday-goers not to panic and abandon their Norfolk holidays because Mrs. Winston Churchill and her children are in the area for their holiday, and if it is safe enough for them, it should be safe enough for everyone else. I return our clothes to their armoires. How can I leave when my every move is watched as if I’m some sort of bellwether of the nation’s fortunes?
While I resign myself to staying in Overstrand, despite the fact that we sit on an open coastline potentially vulnerable to attack, it feels wrong to leave Mother exposed on the French coast in Dieppe where she has retreated for the summer by herself. Since Bill is unavailable to help and I am limited by my pregnancy, Nellie agrees to extricate her from France and bring her to Pear Tree Cottage. But instead of accompanying Mother the full distance to Overstrand as she’d agreed, she drops her at a coastal train station on August 13 while she races to Buckinghamshire to help the Astors transform their mansion into a military hospital and then join a nursing corps in Belgium. I am left alone with my two anxious children and my exasperating mother while my husband directs the war from its beating heart, London.
“I swear I saw someone,” Mother insists, pointing to the cliff wall below our feet. She’s been here only two days and already she is setting the agenda.
She and I stand on the edge of the cliff abutting Pear Tree Cottage. Slate-gray clouds cover the sky as they have for nearly a week, and the sunny days of beachcombing and sand digging seem long gone. This weather combined with the news has left everyone on edge. My nerves become unraveled like a spilled spool of thread.
I stare at the cliff, scanning its length and studying the sandy beach that lines its base. I can imagine a fleet of German surface ships—the very sort about which Winston has been warning the government—blanketing the blue-gray sea, but I see only whitecaps and our long shadows stretching across the beach. Has Mother really spotted someone? Or has she gotten wrapped up in the spy mania spreading like a virus in coastal towns and imagined German enemies scaling the Overstrand cliffs?
“Are you certain, Mama?” My voice betrays my skepticism. I know that if the shoreline was indeed facing serious threats, Winston would recall us to London quicker than a heartbeat. Yet his letter this morning raised no such concerns, only details about his naval plans and his love.
“Absolutely. I swear I saw a figure.” Her words convey strength, but her tone wavers. Even if she doubts herself, she will never admit it. Mother believes in the infallibility of her own opinions.
I wonder about an enemy agent at Pear Tree Cottage. Could the children and I be a target? As the family of the lord admiral, I suppose it is possible, even though I see no evidence of a threat.
“Well, that ‘figure’ seems to have scuttled off without even a footprint in the sand,” I decide.
She assumes an imperious pose, as if she still maintained control of my life. “How can you doubt me, Clementine? In times such as these.”
Before I can answer, I feel Diana and Randolph pulling at my skirts. “What are you looking at?” my daughter asks.
“Nothing, children, only the sea. Daddy has not come by boat again,” I answer, not wanting them to think that anything is amiss.
“Daddy, Daddy!” Randolph claps his hands in excitement at the possibility of his favorite playmate arriving.
I shouldn’t have mentioned Daddy. I squat down to their eye level and deliver the unpleasant news. “I’m sorry, my dears. But Daddy must stay in London. The country needs him.”
“But I need Daddy,” Randolph yells and throws himself to the ground. His sobbing prompts Diana to cry, and in seconds, both children are shrieking. I reach out to comfort them, but Diana shrinks into herself, and Randolph slaps my hand away. Upon seeing my stunned reaction, he strikes again, this time intentionally.
My temples pound with the beginnings of a headache. Where the devil is Nanny? I think. I get back up, but my pregnant belly leaves me off balance, and I fall down on my hands and knees. Instead of helping me up, Mother scolds, “What the devil are you doing down there, Clementine?”
“Do you think I want to be down here, Mama?” I retort. I struggle to my feet and face my mother, my disgust plain.
Hearing our sharp exchange, the children’s shrieks escalate to screams. When Nanny finally pushes open the cottage’s back door and races to Diana and Randolph, I walk back toward the house without a word to her, Mother, or the children. I lurch up the stairs to my bedroom, curling into the chaise longue and resting my head against the cool wall.
I would rather be in London, facing the stresses of war, than here on the desolate seaside, dealing with Mother and the children. Why do the maneuverings of battleships and naval men seem an easier task than the managing of two small children and an elderly woman? Perhaps I am not suited to the usual work of a woman.
My breathing quickens. I rock back and forth on the chaise longue, banging my forehead on the wall in the process. I welcome the pain, as it inexplicably provides relief from the chaos within me. What is wrong with me?
Even though I know it is self-pitying—more than that, it is selfish—I want my husband. He alone understands me and gives me focus. But I do not know when I will see him next, so I reach for my pen and paper.