September 3, 1939
London, England
We hover anxiously around the wireless. After receiving Winston’s letter, Chamberlain issued an ultimatum to Germany, demanding that it cease its attack on Poland within two hours. We’d received word from a loyal source close to the prime minister that Hitler sent no such commitment, and as such, Chamberlain would be making a radio address. But after watching the clock tick for the past twenty minutes, we had still heard nothing from Downing Street.
“Clemmie.” Winston interrupts my anxious reverie with a speech he’s drafting in anticipation of Chamberlain’s announcement. He feels certain that the prime minister will soon capitulate. We go back and forth on the appropriate phraseology, searching for the most powerful, until we settle on the right verbiage.
“Good, good. I’ll make that change.”
The black wireless crackles with life. We lean into it, as if we could hasten Chamberlain’s words with our proximity. “Do you think he’ll finally declare war?” I ask.
“After my letter, how could he not?” Winston says.
Chamberlain’s clipped, aristocratic voice transmits clearly over the wireless. We hold our breaths until we hear the words for which we’ve been waiting: England is at war.
“Chamberlain finally did it,” I say with an exhale of relief. I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding my breath.
“Nearly too late. If he’d listened to me a year ago, it might not have come to this. Although it gives me no pleasure to be right in this particular instance.” Winston hoists himself out of his chair. “Shall we watch London prepare herself for war, Clemmie? From the terrace?”
Stepping over puddles of rainwater, I follow him wordlessly up the stairs to the terrace on the roof above our fifth- and sixth-floor apartment, a space to which only we have access through a door close to the secretary’s room. After the thunderous rain last evening, the day is fine and unexpectedly bright. I shade my eyes to gaze out over the London cityscape of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, wondering what Winston expects to see up here. With the azure sky and the blinding sunlight making vivid the colors of the city, it seems an unlikely day for war. To my astonishment, I see three blimps float up and over the rooftops and church steeples of the city like low-hanging clouds.
“So soon?” I ask, my heart racing at this evidence of war.
“We are at war, Clemmie.” He sounds surprised by my reaction. “And we are jumping in midstream. Its battles will often take place in the air. We must be prepared, and we must begin now.” He says this matter-of-factly, but to me, the leap from declaration to action seems too short. I feel vulnerable and exposed and yet oddly thrilled. Once again, as we had in the Great War, Winston and I stand on the brink of history.
Suddenly, a deafening wail fills the air, and I automatically cover my ears with my hands. “What in the blazes is that?” I yell.
“I believe it’s a first air-raid siren,” he yells back.
He seems fixated on the skyline, so I tug on his arm. “It’s blaring for a reason, Pug. Let’s get a move on.” He is immovable. Threading my arm through his, I pull him toward the stairs. “You’re not going to let your Cat stand in harm’s way, are you?”
The reference to my well-being wakens Winston’s sense of duty, and he begins moving downstairs. As we pass our apartment door, I nip in for a moment, bringing out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “For medicinal comfort,” I say, waving it toward him. I don’t know how long we’ll be forced to stay in the newly erected air-raid shelter on the street, and I know Winston will fare better with a brandy to pass the time. Should I change my clothes? I wonder if my pale-blue gabardine dress is suitable for a shelter. Silly, I think, to be worrying about attire at a time like this.
Near an underpass, a makeshift shelter has been constructed. As we approach the queue of neighborhood people waiting to enter, I hear a whisper pass through them: “The Churchills are here.” I realize that from this moment forward, every decision we make and action we take will serve as an example for the people who only now acknowledge the truth of the warnings Winston has been issuing for years.
Ever impatient, Winston is tempted to rush to the front of the queue, as if early entrance means early exit. I place my hand upon his arm, holding him back. “Everyone is watching you. You must model the proper behavior for the people.”
Chastened, he bides his time until we reach the entryway. Just as we are about to step into the arched space, a peculiar blend of indoor and outdoor, crowded with every manner of London folk—young mothers and children, shopkeepers, grocers, maids, barristers—the man who has been in front of us in the queue hesitates, then walks away. I call out to him as he wanders down a side street, “Sir, you must come inside where it’s safe.”
“I don’t think the people will want me in there, ma’am.” He has a heavy German accent, and I suddenly understand.
“Why? Because you’re originally from Germany?”
“Yes.” He will not meet my eye.
“But you aren’t part of the German army, are you?”
He looks horrified. “No, ma’am. Of course not.”
“And you are a naturalized citizen, are you not?”
“Of course.”
“Then come along. All British citizens deserve protection from the threat of the Nazis.”
* * *
Hours later, the sun wanes, and the silver automobile idles on Downing Street as Winston meets with Chamberlain. My wristwatch, which I cannot help but constantly check, shows that half an hour has passed. Wrapping my tweed coat around me in the unexpectedly chilly autumn evening, I wish Winston had allowed me to spend these long minutes at Morpeth Mansions where I could distract myself with the stack of letters I must write, but he would have none of it. “This is our war, Clemmie, and this will be our position, one for which we’ve waited nearly a decade. You must be nearby when we are restored.”
While I appreciate the sentiment—and I do believe my careful ministrations have allowed him to survive these long years with a modicum of success and self-respect—I don’t think that whatever position he secures will be any less mine if I’m down the road instead of outside on the street. I wonder if he sees me as a kind of a talisman, bringing him luck for the meeting with Chamberlain, and yet, how could he? I haven’t brought him good fortune these years away from the hub of power. In fact, there were several points when I contemplated leaving him alone in his unruly forest, as he is well aware.
Surely Chamberlain, Winston’s nemesis and naysayer of his warnings, wouldn’t have summoned him unless he wanted to restore him to power? Surely the prime minister understands that he must recognize the truth in Winston’s long-held positions.
Another quarter hour ticks by and still no Winston. I’m tempted to instruct the driver to deliver me back home and then return for my husband when a thump pounds on the window from the cane Winston always carries, the legacy from my long-departed brother. Poor Bill and Kitty, I think. How would they have fared in this war-trodden world? I see Winston’s half grin through the foggy glass.
He flings open the door before the driver can come around. It’s been an age since I’ve seen him move so quickly. “What happened?” I ask.
He slides into the car as gracefully as a man of his formidable size can and says to the driver, “Please drive us to Admiralty House.” His half grin becomes a full smile, and he turns to me. Regardless of the jowls, lines of worry, and receding hairline, I see the youthful Winston that I married in his jubilant smile.
“You are the first lord of the admiralty, again,” I say with a mixture of astonishment and awe. I’d hoped and prayed that Chamberlain would give Winston a worthy position—it was a pragmatic, self-serving choice on the prime minister’s part, after all—but I never believed that he’d be granted this lofty post for the second time in his life. Not that Winston didn’t deserve it. He deserved it and more.
“Indeed, Clemmie.” He beams at me, the smile of a man finally vindicated. “And we have work to do immediately. Naval yards to inspect, battleships to assess, an entire navy to review. All left to languish for far too long while Hitler has focused on nothing else but amassing his military might. We must shore up our country at sea.”
“Yes, indeed.” I smile back at him. How can I not? I have not seen my husband this vibrant for nearly a decade, and I am finally about to embark upon the work I’ve been preparing to do nearly my entire life.
“Are you up to the task, Cat?”
“I think you know I am, Pug.”
“Thank God. You know I cannot do this alone.”
We entwine our fingers. Whatever domestic issues have divided us, whatever familial disagreements have wedged between us, whatever toll the years of shoring up Winston’s dream of Chartwell—his England in miniature—has taken from us, we are linked in this work for our country. Together, we will be serving in the Admiralty again, in another wartime nonetheless. How we have come full circle.