September 22 and November 4, 1915
Surrey and London, England
“Do you think you can put these to any use?” I say, trying to keep the irritation from my tone as I hand Winston the box of paints and brushes from Goonie’s collection, which the children also use from time to time. I am careful not to allow the paint to splatter on my dress. Money is scarce these days, and my clothes must last, even the simple ones.
“They’re utterly botching this war. For nearly six months, I’ve been forced to sit idly by with long, tedious days of unsolicited leisure”—he gestures around to the picturesque rolling hills of Surrey surrounding us—“while those fiends in London cast away all chance at victory. To think of the thousands of lives lost because of their egos and ineptitude.”
“Did you hear me, Winston?” I interrupt his vitriol with a question, my hand still outstretched. This time, I don’t bother to mask my annoyance. I’ve heard this tirade before countless times, and while I fully agree with his point of view, I cannot countenance it anymore. Giving voice to these sentiments only serves to further enrage him.
“I did, I did,” he grumbles without a word of apology. His mood has become so dark as of late. He treats his depression as if it’s something separate and apart from himself. But I believe that it’s his visceral reaction to being expelled from the center of power.
But Winston isn’t done spewing his bitter sentiments. He practically yells, “Do you really think a daub of paint will bring back those soldiers?”
My free hand shifts to my hip, and I match his tone. “Do you really think that it’s appropriate to speak to your wife in that manner? I am not one of your subordinates, Winston.” I dislike the loud voice and tyrannical manner in which he’s begun to speak to our staff and, when he was in office, those who reported to him, although I had no control over that realm. In this realm, however, I will not sit by quietly while he screams at me or the servants, no matter how frustrated he is with his current position.
His eyes widen as he realizes the impact of his words. “I am sorry, Clemmie. It’s just the headlines getting under my skin.” He reaches for the box of paints, saying, “Hand them over. Let me see what havoc I can wreak with them.”
The mild summer days spent in the bucolic landscape surrounding Hoe Farm in Hascombe near Godalming in Surrey had served as salve for Winston’s wounded pride at first, particularly with regular visits by the newly engaged Nellie and occasionally her fiancé, Bertram Romilly, a rather quiet fellow from a reputable military family. Together with Goonie and our gaggle of children, we explored the nearby woodlands by daylight and dined on favorite foods in the picturesque fifteenth-century stone manor house by night. But the comforts of Hoe Farm proved short-lived.
Within weeks, I find Winston sitting despondently at his desk instead of gallivanting with the children, who he has recently found overwhelming, particularly Randolph, who is prone to teasing and naughtiness. Even though he still sits on the Cabinet and War Council, he has been marginalized, and his new position as chancellor of the duchy of Lancaster, an empty role given to ousted politicians, has no demands, and he cannot tolerate his ostracism from the center of power at this critical moment in our nation’s history. It is the worst imaginable punishment for a man who sees himself as essential. When I examine his blank stare and slack expression, I feel as though I am watching him grieve for a lost part of himself.
The brush and paint provide him with a diversion. I recruit our friend John Lavery, a talented painter of portraits and landscapes, and his wife, Hazel, who is herself a wonderful artist, to give Winston lessons and guidance in his endeavors. And when his interest seems to wane, I offer my husband further distraction in the form of trips to the National Gallery for artistic inspiration. The barrage of negative headlines about the botched military decisions by the new coalition government, however, undermines any delight he finds in his canvases, and people we thought were friends abandon us—even Violet disavows Winston once and for all and becomes engaged to Sir Maurice Bonham-Carter. I soon realize that nothing will appease my husband’s pain except a return to action. And if politics can no longer be his pathway, I will find him another.
* * *
Drinks in hand, we sit before the fire at Jack and Goonie’s London home, where we’ve gone to stay for the time being as a necessary economy for both families. Always sensitive to the moods of others, Goonie has taken over the task of seeing the children to bed, understanding that Winston and I need time alone. His mood has been black since he returned home from Parliament today.
“I’ve been excluded from the newly reorganized War Council,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire.
The news does not surprise me. His place on the prior war cabinet had been a holdover from his days as lord admiral, and he had power in name only. As a result, I’d perceived Winston’s hopes of inclusion in the new War Council as far-fetched in light of the Dardanelles and would not indulge conversation about his efforts. Time and noteworthy acts outside the government are the only way to heal his blighted reputation, I’d come to believe. But Winston, typically impatient, does not want to play the long game.
I nod in sympathy. “That’s unfortunate, Pug. But there may be other ways to restore your position.”
“Oh really, Clementine? Are you suggesting I have not thought of everything?” He speaks sharply to me, and I grow quiet, closing around myself like an oyster around its pearl. I wait for the apology I know will come, as his mounting despair has yielded many outbursts and has required many apologies.
“Kitten, I’m sorry. This damnable business of isolation is driving me mad. Please share your ideas with me,” he offers.
I breathe in deeply. I have an unorthodox proposal for him, which, in truth, stems from a seed that he himself planted. Until now, I have brooked no discussion about this idea, but I know that I must bury my own needs and anxieties about Winston’s safety to offer him this avenue toward hope.
“Actually, it’s an idea of yours about which I’ve finally come around.”
“What idea?” His brows knit in confusion, an expression I see rarely upon his face. His mind operates so quickly that he is rarely perplexed.
“Volunteering your services for the front.” I will myself to sound strong and confident. I cannot allow my voice to quiver with the fear inside me.
“Th-the front?” The stutter to which he reverts in times of great stress emerges. Is it prompted by the thought of fighting alongside soldiers in the dangerous muck of the trenches? Or is he shocked that—after eschewing the idea for months—I am now suggesting it myself?
“Yes, Pug. As usual, you were wise in your proposal.” I use the word proposal, although his regular rants about resigning his position and enlisting in the army are hardly fully formed plans. They are closer to empty threats. But I now take him at his word. I must.
“Go to the front? Really, Clemmie?”
Is he asking the question of me or himself? I wonder.
“I’ve come to believe that it is the only way to salvage your reputation and restore power. Politics will not deliver you there.”
“By fighting in the front line?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation, even though the specter of injury and death looms large in my consciousness.
He stands up and paces around the room, puffing on his cigar. “It could work, Clemmie. It would show the PM and the people that if I’m prevented from commanding the war from afar, I am willing to fight alongside the men in the trenches. That my dedication to our country is unshakable.”
“And that your bravery knows no bounds.” I rise from my chair and stand before him.
“Yes,” he says with a nod, “it demonstrates courage and self-sacrifice. A quality in short supply among most men of my class. I will write a letter to Asquith today, resigning from this ridiculous chancellor post and offering my services to the front.” He wraps his arms around me, whispering, “What would I do without you, my sweet kitten?”
“You will never have to know, Pug,” I whisper back.