‘Better still, not to trust him behind your back.’
Churchill turned. ‘Let’s not argue, Randolph. Not on your last day. Not before you leave for the warrior’s life in the desert.’
‘Cairo is scarcely the desert, Papa. Must you romanticize everything?’
‘There will be nothing romantic in what is about to take place in the Middle East. Where you are going could yet prove to be the fulcrum of the whole war.’
‘Is that why we’ve been sent by those weevils in the War Office to train amongst the ice floes of the Clyde? So we can serve in the Middle East?’
‘From what I’ve heard, the officers of your regiment appear to have undertaken most of their training in the bar rooms and fleshpots of Glasgow.’
‘What else is there to do on a winter’s night in such a God-awful place?’
They were at it again. Bristling. Born to fight. And Randolph carried with him the appalling burden for a fighting man of being the son of a Prime Minister. No one took him seriously. He wanted to be part of this war and was desperate to be sent overseas in search of action, for whatever else they might say about him, he was no coward. He’d joined his father’s old regiment, the 4th Hussars, in the hope it would get him sent to a battlefront, but they made it no further than Hull—held back, it was said, because he was his father’s son. So he had transferred to a commando unit—surely there would be action there. But only brawls on the street with Scotsmen. So the bathroom became a battleground, too.
Suddenly the moment was broken by a familiar voice.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Randolph.’
Sawyers, damn the man. When he issued a request it carried all the authority of high command, even with his lisp. Reluctantly Randolph made way as the valet placed a set of carefully laundered silk underwear over the wooden towel rail, but his real purpose was to scold them both, reminding them that this might prove to be their last moment together on earth and they might never have the opportunity of forgiving or forgetting what was said between them. The servant managed to convey all this with no more than a raised eyebrow.
Churchill took his valet’s cue. ‘My darling boy,’ he said, and instantly a truce was declared. ‘You are about to embark upon the greatest adventure of your lifetime, and I know that whatever it is you are about to do will be done with honour and with formidable distinction.’
He finished climbing into his underwear and dressing gown, and was decent once again. ‘You know, Randolph, nine months ago when I became Prime Minister, I promised the people victory. Victory whatever the cost; that’s what I told them. They have borne the terrible cost yet seen precious little of the victory. So I beg you—be brave, fight boldly. The Middle East may not be the place where the final triumph is decided, but let it at least be where it is begun.’
‘I’ll do my best, Papa.’
‘Brighter days lie ahead, of that I am certain. So in everything you do, be a Churchill!’
And they embraced.
‘But how shall we win, Papa—finally?’
‘Not alone. With others.’
‘What others?’
‘The Americans, of course.’
‘The Americans?’
‘They have already taken the first step. President Roosevelt has declared that his country will become the great arsenal of democracy.’
‘Hah! He got that almost right,’ Randolph said, his tone mocking.
‘He’s agreed to lease and lend us all the materials we need,’ his father responded forcefully.
‘So that we can scrabble around as her mercenaries?’
‘It is an act of unprecedented generosity.’
‘Or unprincipled calculation! The Americans sit back and make their profits while we fight their war. The only time they ever come into a war is when it’s all but bloody over. Then they’ll crawl out from their bunkers in time to pick the pockets of the wounded.’
‘The Americans will join us! Not just as supporters and suppliers but as combatants, too. They will join with us. That I promise you.’
‘Papa, what strange world are you living in? You know what Roosevelt has said, time and again. Fight to the last Briton!’
‘Oh, but you are cruel. The President has had to act cautiously.’
‘What? You mean he’s had to keep his clothes on! He won’t step into the showers with us and he daren’t look the American voters in the eye.’
Their voices were rising once again.
‘Statesmen practise the art of the possible, Randolph.’
‘Roosevelt has the moral compass of a piece of driftwood!’
‘Such things take time.’
‘And precisely how much time do you think we have, Papa?’
‘That may well depend upon what you and your brother officers achieve in the Middle East.’
‘Then I’d better get out there,’ Randolph snapped, turning away, carried along relentlessly by his addiction to argument.
‘My boy!’ Winston called, despairing. ‘Not—like this. Not to war.’ Tears began to puddle in his eyes. ‘You know I love you.’
The words stopped Randolph in mid-stride. Slowly he turned back, and his father rushed to embrace him.
‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Randolph sighed. ‘I fear I’m not good company at the moment. Been trying to sort out my affairs before I go, but…You know these things. So silly when you set them against war and what’s happening.’
‘You have troubles?’
He shrugged. ‘A few bills I’d completely forgotten about.’
Ah, that again. ‘How much?’ the old man asked jadedly.
‘Just a couple of hundred.’ He was unable to return his father’s steady gaze. ‘Not going to happen again, I promise you—promised Pam—I’ve given up gambling. Washed my hands of it. Mug’s game. No bloody good at it, anyway.’ He tried to make light of it—just as he had done last time.
‘I shall write you another cheque.’
‘That…would be splendid, Papa. For Pam. Mean a lot to her. And allow me to go off with a clear conscience.’
‘I shall hold you to your promise.’
But Randolph was already brighter, his confidence returning. ‘And I shall hold you to yours. Drag America into this war, and I swear—on my life as a soldier, Papa—I’ll never gamble another brass farthing.’
Churchill’s blue eyes were fixed on his son, trying to tie him to the spot, not wanting him to leave, knowing this moment might be their last. ‘May God give me enough time,’ he said softly. ‘Little by little, step by step, they will be drawn to the fight. They must. Otherwise all this suffering, all the sacrifice, the lives that have been given up…’—he faltered slightly—‘and those that are yet to be given up will have