Papa. But I was once a major in the Yeomanry.’
The father wrinkled his nose. ‘You were always getting yourself into scrapes. Getting beyond yourself. Like that time you fell off the bridge in Dorset.’
‘I didn’t fall. I jumped, Papa. To evade capture by my friends. I jumped onto the higher branches of a tree, but they gave way.’
‘Seem to remember you were in bed for months. And for what? It was a childish game, nothing more. No judgement, that’s the thing.’
‘There are those who would agree with you, I fear.’
‘Always sickening in bed. Caused your mother no end of inconvenience.’ The voice trailed away, diverted down a new, more gentle path. ‘So … what of Mama?’
‘She lived a long life.’
‘There were … other men?’
(Did he truly want to hear? But he knew there would have been other men. There were always other men.) ‘She married twice more.’ The son pondered telling him that they had been young enough to be her sons, the last even younger than he. But somehow it didn’t seem to matter any longer. ‘Neither of them matched up to you, Papa.’
‘Two, you say. Always a little careless with her men, your mama.’ The voice now seemed strained; Winston put it down to his father’s need for a smoke. He had still not lit his cigarette.
‘But, in the end, loyal enough,’ the father continued. ‘Can’t fault her loyalty, not through the last years, at least.’
The painful years of his father’s decline came flooding back to the son, when his brain disease had got hold of him and he had died by fractions in public. Winston himself had died a little as he watched his father being led stumbling and incoherent from the Chamber. Decay of the brain, and of the character. The Churchill legacy.
‘You have sons?’
‘One. And three daughters.’
‘Is he up to carrying the Churchill name?’
‘A father should never give up hope for his son,’ Winston responded. It was both reproach to his father and injunction to himself. His son had been named after the grandfather, Randolph, and had inherited so many of his characteristics. Rudeness, inconstancy, infidelity, lack of judgement – that’s what they said about the younger Randolph, and they had said no less in the grandfather’s time.
‘And Jack? What of him?’
‘My brother is happy. Married. A stockbroker.’
‘A stock—’ Randolph bit off the thought, but there was no hiding the disappointment. ‘Went too soon, I did. Before my time. Always wanted more sons, but your mama … There was so much more still to do, to make the Churchill name stand out above the crowd. So, you have a role to play in this war.’
‘I was with the King this evening.’
‘Which King is that?’
‘George. The Sixth.’
‘What? Two more Georges?’
‘And two Edwards.’
‘Hah! I knew the first, of course, royal rogue that he was. Once challenged me to a duel, he did. Couldn’t accept, of course, not a contest with the Prince of Wales. A pickle over some damned woman. Can’t remember her name.’
The name had been Edith, Countess of Aylesford, a woman to whom passion spoke more loudly than discretion. It had caused her to become entangled not only with the Prince of Wales but also with the Churchill family in an affair that grew into one of the most sensational causes de scandale of the time. It had pushed Randolph’s legendary lack of judgement to new and intolerable extremes, and he threatened the heir to the throne with public exposure. As a result, Randolph and his young family had been condemned to exile in Ireland and many years of royal ostracism. Winston’s first memories had been not of his beloved England, but of Dublin.
‘In my life there was but one monarch, Victoria. It gave us all a sense of continuity, of stability. But four since then?’ the father muttered in astonishment.
‘In less than forty years. And scarcely any great kings left. No Habsburgs, no Romanovs, not even a Kaiser.’
The father’s jaw sagged in disbelief.
‘There has been war and revolution in every corner of Europe.’
‘And in England?’
‘We still live as a democracy.’
‘Then there is hope,’ the father concluded. ‘I always said: “Trust the people.” Built my reputation on it. It’s only a democracy that can weather the storms of political fortune, link the past with the future.’
‘Tempests have struck with remarkable ferocity since democracy took charge, Papa. We may yet be swept away.’
‘But still a kingdom, you say? And you are friendly, are you, with the King?’
‘No, not friends. In truth, I don’t think he cares for me very much. I was too close to his elder brother, the second Edward. He abdicated.’
‘Oh, misery. A realm in which kings abdicate and enemies prevail? My poor, wretched England …’
‘Papa, these times are harder than any I have known. But perhaps you can help me.’
The sharp eyes bulged in alarm. ‘What? Not money again, Winston? Always begging for money.’
If it were so, it was another trait inherited directly from the father, but there seemed little point in saying so.
‘No, Papa, not money. Advice. I fear our country faces nothing but disaster for a very long time. What would you do, in such hard times?’
The father’s head was raised again, his impatience washing away in satisfaction that the son had acknowledged the greater wisdom of the father. ‘Well, only one thing for it, Winston. Know your enemies. I didn’t, you see, underestimated them, and so … Know your enemy. In that way you will discover how to beat him. That’s it, and all of it. So if you have the ear of the government …’ He had at last discovered a match and bent his head to light it.
‘Papa, I should tell you –’
But it was too late. As the match was struck there was a flash of considerable brilliance, and Lord Randolph was gone, the chair empty. The son was once more alone.
‘Know mine enemies, Papa? But all I ever truly wanted to know was you …’
Whit Sunday. The first Sunday of the real war.
The Reverend Henry Chichester climbed into the pulpit of his ancient parish church of St Ignatius-without-the-Walls, which stood above
