Target Churchill (6 page)

“Not at all, darling, Douglas doesn't mind. And Father will welcome the interruption. As I told you, he hates the process, especially his costume. Father is into legacy these days.”

Sarah introduced Benson to Mrs. Churchill, whom they met just as they entered the house. Her silver hair and aristocratic poise was a well-known photographic image, mostly taken while welcoming her husband home from his many journeys. She was shorter than he imagined. Mrs. Churchill smiled, nodded politely, and reached out her hand.

“So good to meet you, Mr. Benson. Sarah has told me a great deal about you.” She looked beyond them to a waiting limousine. “So sorry, but I must be off. The ladies of Miami have kept me busy. Today we are touring an art museum. They have been so generous.”

“A great deal about me?” Benson whispered to Sarah, when Mrs. Churchill had moved out of earshot.

“Mother is an old political pro. She understands the protocol of ingratiation. I merely told her you are a friend, only that. We Brits are expert apple polishers, polite to a fault. It masks our disdain.” She laughed, tucked an arm under his, and moved him through the house.

They found Churchill sitting in an enclosed glassed-in terrace. Just outside was a large swimming pool in an area surrounded by a high wall fronted by tall, exotic plants.

The artist had placed him in a large chair, where he sat somewhat stiffly, using a magnifying glass to read the
London Times
. The magnification apparently was necessary so that Churchill would not break the pose. He was dressed to the nines in a navy blue, pinstriped, woolen suit, a gold watch chain slid through a middle button of his vest. He wore a maroon polka-dot bow tie on a white shirt.

A fan hummed behind him. His baby pink complexion belied his seventy-one years. In his right hand, he held a lit cigar.

“Father, this is Mr. Benson.”

Churchill looked up from his reading. The artist, a short squat man with a tiny moustache, concentrated on his work behind a large easel.

“It's all right, Mr. Churchill,” the artist said. “You can stand down.”

Churchill shrugged and pulled a smile of relief, showing a wet lower lip, in which he quickly slipped his cigar for a brief puff.

“This man is a tyrant. Look at this costume. I am a chained prisoner in a tropical cell.”

“It will look wonderful in the portrait, Father. Or would you rather be painted in the altogether?”

“With an arrow and quiver, I could pass as Cupid.”

He took a deep puff on his cigar then used it as a pointer to a chair. Benson settled in and took out his dictation-style notebook.

“I'll leave you two together.”

Sarah kissed her father's cheek and patted Benson on the knee.

“I was one, you know,” Churchill said, when she had sauntered off.

“One what, sir?”

“Foreign correspondent. Pretty good one, I must say.”

“I'm well aware of that, sir. I spent the night reading very extensive material on your career.”

“How boring.”

Churchill winked and smiled. He took another deep puff and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Benson felt his cerulean blue eyes assessing him.

“I can tell you this: It is far better
making
the news than merely taking it down,” he said.

“Unfortunately,” Benson responded. “I have never had the opportunity to do the former.”

“The
Washington Star
is it? Sarah said something about you wanting to do a story about how this old, has-been hulk is faring in his so-called tranquil retirement.”

“That would hardly be my theme, sir.”

“Tranquility!” Churchill boomed suddenly, as if it were an expression of contempt. “There is nothing more tranquil than the grave. It is not my intention to repair there in the near future.” He paused and then muttered, “Although there are some who would like to hasten such a journey.”

Benson was taken aback by the sudden outburst and wasn't sure how to respond. Churchill suddenly relaxed and took another puff on his cigar, blowing the smoke upward.

“I hadn't planned any meetings with the fourth estate for the time being. But my daughter is quite persuasive. I thought perhaps, in a fair exchange, you might give me some insight into what's happening in Washington.”

“Be my pleasure, Mr. Churchill.”

“How is our new president faring these days?” Churchill asked. “We did get a chance to know each other in Potsdam. Perhaps if I hadn't attended and stuck to my political last, I might still be living at Number 10.”

A brief shadow of regret seemed to pass over his eyes, dulling them for a moment. He paused, recovering, and then asked cheerfully, “Do you think Mr. Truman has a chance to be elected on his own?”

Benson felt flattered by the question and determined to give the answer his best shot.

“Too early to tell, sir,” Benson said. “He's got two years to solidify himself. At the moment, I'd put him in the political danger zone. There are stirrings on his left and right flank. He may find himself in a real fight. I think it will be a Republican win, although I'm only speculating. The bomb thing gave him heft, but most pundits think his days are numbered in the White House.”

“Hazardous business, politics.”

He shrugged and looked upward as if consulting a muse.

“Politics is almost as exciting as war and quite as dangerous. In war, you can only be killed once but in politics many times.” He shook his head and smiled. “I do admire the man. Took a lot of gumption to make that decision to drop the bomb. Franklin might have done it, although one can't be certain, but it was Truman after all who gave the order. The destruction it wrought was beyond belief. Truman was told about its frightening power, and it certainly did get the attention of the Japanese warlords. To his everlasting credit, that decision finished the war in the East. Indeed, many a parent or wife or sweetheart or child of an Allied soldier owe the man a debt of gratitude.”

“To you as well, sir.”

“You think so, Benson? In their wisdom, the British public thought otherwise.”

“History will be a better judge, sir.”

“Can one depend on the judgment of history? I have found that a contemporary outlook far different than our own always determines history. History might judge Mr. Truman as a brutal murderer of thousands of innocents in a horrific
Götterdämmerung
. And I? Already there are rumblings that I am responsible for the destruction of Dresden. As if what their bombers did to Coventry and London was playacting. Without the passion of our desperate struggle, how would it be possible for future historians to summon up the raw emotion of our time? They will look at our struggle through the wrong end of the telescope. Perhaps even Hitler will be cleansed of his legacy of evil. Indeed, people might say he didn't finish the job of the so-called final solution.”

“You're being very pessimistic, sir.”

“Not really. Even revisions get revised.”

Benson knew he had to steer the conversation beyond the historical. His editor had given him a specific assignment. With time fleeting, he plunged ahead.

“Tell me about what you'll be doing and saying at Westminster College in March,” Benson said, hoping he was being casual and only mildly interested.

His mind had focused on a quote he had read on the train, attributed to Edward R. Murrow, saying that Churchill had “marshaled the power of words and sent them into battle.”

Churchill nodded and shrugged.

“Oh yes, they're giving me a doctorate.”

Churchill flicked an ash from his cigar into a nearby ashtray. His lower lip jutted downward into a scowl.

“Defeat, you see, allows one to reap the benefits of death prematurely—portraits, dedications, honors—it's like watching one's own funeral.”

He grinned suddenly, his eyes sparkling.

“Getting yet another honorary doctorate here in Miami. Clemmie says I'm addicted to the irony, since I was such an awful student. No one who has ever passed so few examinations has received so many honorary degrees. Douglas tells me it's because I like the costumes.”

He bent closer to Benson in an attitude of confidentiality.

“I'm only enduring this torture because Chandor has promised to give me some painting tips. Isn't that right, Douglas?”

“I must say, Mr. Churchill. Your paintings are wonderful.”

“Who can argue with such praise? The truth is my figures are awful. That's why I always paint landscapes.”

“And trees don't talk back or chatter away,” Chandor said.

“What will be your theme?” Benson asked, trying to make the idea seem a casual thought.

“My theme?”

“In Fulton. Your speech.”

Churchill smiled. His cigar had gone out and he relit it, savoring the smoke.

“Depends,” he said, cryptically.

“Depends on what?” Benson pressed.

“On the moment,” Churchill said, with an air of dismissal.

Benson was reminded of his deflective remark to Sarah. Churchill was quite obviously deflecting. But Benson persisted.

“I'm sure everyone will be most interested in what you have to say, Mr. Churchill.”

“Nonsense, Benson. I speak to the wind these days.”

“When Churchill speaks,” Benson said, determined to restore himself in better graces, “the world listens.” Ironically, his remarks offered another opening: “Your speech in Fulton, sir, could provide an opportunity.”

“I see my daughter has gotten to you, Benson. She sees it as a seminal event, what with Mr. Truman present to introduce me.”

“I would say that you could make it a historic event if you so choose.”

Churchill puffed deeply on his still-lit cigar and blew out a stream of smoke. He seemed suddenly distant, lost in thought.

“What is your assessment of the attitude toward the Russians in Washington, Mr. Benson?” he asked, after what might be called a pregnant pause.

The inquiry seemed of very distant interest to the matter at hand, but Benson went along.

“So far, so good,” Benson said, cautiously. “There are, of course, those on the Right who are rabidly anti-Communist and won't trust the Russians on anything. And, of course, there are many on the Left who approve of our relationship with them. All in all, I'd say there is a wide centrist reservoir of goodwill that still exists toward the Russians.”

Churchill grew pensive.

“Your General Patton wanted to go right in and fight them.”

“Surely that wasn't your view, Mr. Churchill?”

A deliberate journalist's ploy, he offered it with trepidation. Churchill observed him, his eyes narrowing.

“Remember, Benson, I was in your profession once.”

Churchill seemed to turn inward, and Benson did not press the point. He sensed that the old man had put up his guard.

“Put it this way, Benson. These are troubled times. We have won the war. The larger question is: Can we win the peace?”

“Who do you mean by
we
, sir?”

Churchill's eyes narrowed. His cigar had gone out, and he used the pause to relight it and puff deeply.

“Why belabor the obvious, Benson?
We
are Western civilization.
We
are those who stand for the great democratic values of freedom and the rule of law. Come, Benson, surely that doesn't need any further explanation.”

His sudden testiness quickly subsided, and Benson tried again.

“Do you think the preservation of those values is in doubt, sir? Is this what you will speak about in Fulton?”

“That depends.”

“On what?” Benson pressed.

“On Cassandra's mood on that day,” Churchill chuckled, his brief burst of temper gone.

“And what will she be prophesying, sir?”

“Endless questions, Mr. Benson! The journalist's lot is questions, questions, questions.”

“That's our job, Mr. Churchill. If we don't ask questions, we don't get at the truth.”

“Ah, the truth. There is a conundrum. Make it up, lad. I did when I was in your profession.”

“Mr. Churchill is being playful this morning,” Douglas Chandor said, peeking from behind his big canvas.

“I was just trying to get your perspective, sir,” Benson said, defensively.

It was obvious to him now that he was not going to get the story he came for. Churchill, as if reading his mind, offered more meat for deflection.

“So what does one do in one's dotage?” Churchill said, deliberately answering an unasked question about how he spent his time. “I paint. I write. I dictate, by the way. I continue to be a member of Parliament and the leader of His Majesty's opposition—although, at the moment, we Tories are in shambles. I enjoy good spirits and good food, and the love and devotion of a fine family.”

He lifted the
London Times
.

“I keep up with events. I receive honorary degrees. My friend Chandor here is immortalizing me. And I will be crossing America with Mr. Truman, although I will not be joining him on his daily constitutional. Does he continue that practice?”

“Without fail, rain or shine.”

“Do me the world of good, I suppose, but I get my exercise being a pallbearer for my friends who swear by calisthenics and exercise,” Churchill said, patting his ample girth. “Unfortunately, the man rises at dawn. I work on a rather different clock.”

He smiled and directed his remarks to Chandor.

“What say you, Douglas?”

He turned again to Benson. “I know what he's doing. He's making me look like a bulldog.”

“I'm trying my best, Mr. Churchill,” Chandor said, dabbing his brush against the canvas, stepping back to assess his work.

“I am more a lion than a bulldog, Chandor. Frankly, I prefer the lion.”

“Then roar away, sir,” Chandor chuckled, obviously enjoying the banter. “Your recess is over.”