August 4 and 9, 1941
London and Buckinghamshire, England
The hands of the grandfather clock in my study refuse to move. The time on my wristwatch clings to its position. I will the hours and minutes to pass more quickly, but the day stubbornly adheres to its normal routine. Will it ever reach noon? I yearn for the release it will bring.
Why am I surprised at the unhurried passage of time today? After all, I feel as though I’ve been treading in increasingly viscous, torpid waters for the past few months, desperately waiting for some form of relief to emerge from the depths. I’d sensed that the seams of my composed exterior were coming unstitched during our campaign to woo the Americans into the war. The strain of forging and maintaining those ties—compounded with the pain of watching my husband chase after the recalcitrant President Roosevelt—was tremendous. But I felt I could bear up with my duties and maintain my steadfast facade until the reports poured in enumerating the loss of life, and I could see no way through to the end of this conflict except through more bloodshed. All the brisk sense of purpose that had arrived with Winston’s return to power started to disappear, only to be replaced with anxiety.
How to return to my state of calm determination? This was the question that plagued me in the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep and my long list of worries worked its tentacles into me. I longed for the sort of respite I’d taken in the past, one of my rest cures, not a Rosaura-esque excursion, but I could never leave Winston. He relied upon me completely for support and advice, and our routines and rituals were a solace to him. I would not, indeed could not, permit myself the luxury of a break, especially when our country’s women were truly suffering, like my poor sister Nellie, who was constantly awaiting word of her sons’ fates. Not when young men were dying and my husband was in charge of their destiny.
But then, in July, Harry Hopkins sent word to Winston that Roosevelt was anxious for a meeting. Finally, the news for which we’d been waiting. He and I rejoiced at this missive, seeing it as one step closer to having America as an ally in this war.
The weeks that followed were a flurry of planning, a great feat of scheduling interconnected land, sea, and air travel under the cloak of secrecy. No one person, aside from Winston, me, and a few key advisers, knew his complete itinerary, as Hitler would like nothing more than to bomb Winston in the air or sea as he made the crossing to America and claim victory.
I promised myself that if I could just make it through one more week, then one more day, then one more hour before Winston left for America, I could take the respite I need before I splinter. Casting around for a secure, private establishment for a focused rest cure, I read about Dr. Stanley Lief and his unique work at Champneys, a health retreat in Buckinghamshire. Dr. Lief holds some unorthodox but compelling views about the negative impact that stress and nervousness have on one’s health. Thinking back over the course of my life—the times when my nerves overwhelmed and the consequent maladies, both physical and emotional—this made perfect sense to me, even though most other doctors I’d consulted held no such view. I booked a week-long stay for the time when Winston was away and stuck to my plans even when Winston dubbed it a madhouse.
The door shudders with a knock. Has the hour come? Glancing over at the grandfather clock, I see that it is eleven thirty on the nose, earlier than the designated hour. Is Winston eager to leave? “Come in,” I say.
Jock peeks his head in the door. “The prime minister is ready for you, ma’am.”
How my relationship with Winston’s private secretary has change since our early days, I think. In the past, he’d have bristled at the lowly task of notifying the prime minister’s wife.
“Thank you, Jock. Where is he?”
“In the entryway of the Annexe, ma’am. Ready to push out.”
Nodding, I push myself up from my chair, straightening my dove-gray, serge wool dress, and follow Jock down the hallway. When I round the bend into the foyer, I see Winston from the back, a great hulking presence of a man, intimidatingly fierce to so many but my needy, sensitive Pug underneath. He turns toward me, his eyes soft, and my heart tugs unexpectedly. Why am I suddenly feeling so sentimental about Winston’s departure for this trip when we’ve been separated so many times before? Is it the risk associated with the travel? Or my guilt over wishing away the time before he leaves?
“I’ll miss you, Cat,” Winston whispers into my ear. He seems unusually sentimental as well, perhaps for much the same reasons.
“And I you, Mr. Pug,” I whisper back, and even though I need this span of time alone to reassemble myself, I mean it.
* * *
A sliver of morning sun streams through a small gap in the two billowing seafoam-green silk curtains that cover the French doors leading to my private patio. The shift in my bedroom’s brightness awakens me, and I stretch like a cat awakening from a nap, thinking that I could sleep forever. How relaxed and at ease I feel at Champneys, I think.
I experience a curious sense of lightness here. It did not settle upon me when I stepped into the attractive facility five days ago but in stages. The first bit occurred when I surrendered my wardrobe of wool dresses and suits for the Champneys’ loose-fitting, soft cotton dresses; I felt as liberated as I did when fashion no longer dictated corsets. The next layer happened when I was encouraged by the staff to sleep as much as my body permitted; I slipped into the cool, pressed cotton bedsheets and slept away the fatigue that had plagued me since the war began. The final stage transpired during my sessions with Dr. Lief. In them, we built up to confessional discussions about the restlessness I experience around motherhood and the anxiety I feel when tending to Winston. When the doctor validated my emotions and explained their interrelationship with my physical health—something no other medical professional had ever done—I felt an almost tangible lifting sensation from my shoulders and back and a new openness across my chest.
Since then, I stopped questioning why I must leave my family and responsibilities to arrive at myself. I halted my self-criticism about my inability to bring a sense of wholeness and peace to my everyday life. And I no longer felt angry at Winston for indulging his depression but being unable to understand—or empathize with—my own struggle with nerves. After all, it took this particular doctor and establishment for me to comprehend it myself and give myself permission to heal.
I understand what I must do to maintain this sense of self-tranquility and fortitude of purpose. I will do what’s necessary so I can meet Winston at King’s Cross Station when he returns from his meeting with Roosevelt, restored and ready for whatever Hitler inflicts next.