May 9, 2013

GLIMPSES: FINEST HOUR 144, AUTUMN 2009

BY RONALD E. GOLDING, PART 2

Bodyguard Golding’s memoirs ran in Finest Hour 34-35, 1981-82: so long ago that we have responded to several requests to republish and thus to archive them on our website.

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Painting was another great hobby of the then-Mr. Churchill. Inquestionably, he was a fine artist. Whenever we went on tour abroad he would take his painting kit. Sometimes it was rather a pantomime. I remember staying at the Royal Palace at Brussels. One day Churchill wanted to paint a scene on the banks of the Meuse at Dignon, a picturesque spot. We drove out from Brussels for some miles to get there.

There were quite a number of cars in attendance, carrying politicians, government officials, police and so on. Mr. Churchill got out of the car and walked to the river bank, which was flat, rather like a towpath. For 100 yards or so, he eyed the view critically, and when he found the right spot he stopped. He then asked for his easel to be brought, together with the other painting paraphernalia. No one had thought of bringing a chair, not even a canvas folding one.

By this time a crowd of locals was collecting and had to be held back about fifty yards by a police contingent. Someone ran off to the nearest house and came back with a substantial kitchen table and a heavy farmhouse chair. Mr. Churchill seated himself; the paints, cleaning rags, turpentine and brushes were placed on the table. WSC put on his white smock, the easel and canvas were assembled, and the painting commenced.

After some time, Mr. Churchill turned to me and said: “Fetch a photographer.” I turned to one of the Belgian officials and repeated the request; he called a policeman and passed the message in Flemish.

About half an hour later a hot and flustered Belgian photographer turned up. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw who was sitting at an easel wearing a grey Homburg, a white smock, and smoking an outsize cigar. After lengthy explanations the photographer was persuaded to take a photograph of the view across the river at the exact angle Mr. Churchill was making his painting.

This procedure was always followed when WSC knew he would not be at a place long enough to complete a painting. With a good photograph he would be able to complete the canvas later, using a rather interesting technique.

He had a small studio at Chartwell where he stored dozens of his paintings. When the need moved him he would spend time here touching up his old works or completing new ones. On one occasion I walked with him from the mansion across a glistening carpet of snow to the studio. He placed a partly painted canvas in an upright position at the end of his bench. At the other end was an old fashioned magic lantern; a slide was inserted into the lantern and the image projected onto the canvas. After focusing, the image was brought into correct scale: the same view as the partially completed canvas. The slide had been prepared from a photograph such as the Belgian scene just described. Mr. Churchill was then able to go to the canvas and paint in the outline of some houses and trees that he had not had time to capture at the original sitting.

I watched this for a little while and then said, with respect of course: “Looks a bit like cheating.”

Mr. Churchill looked over the top of his spectacles at me and said quite solemnly: “If the finished product looks like a work of art, then it is a work of art, no matter how it has been achieved.”

Mr. Churchill seldom appeared in public without a cigar. He did this deliberately, even making sure his cigar was alight before leaving an aircraft, contrary to all fire restrictions. He obviously felt that his public expected it.

He smoked about twelve cigars a day, the very best Havana, which cost between 15 and 20 shillings each. This means that his cigar bill per week was in the region of £60. Of course, thousands of cigars were given to him as presents, but he rarely smoked any of these. He had two favourite brands, Camacho and Romeo y Julietta, which he always purchased himself.

He was a very “wet” smoker and used to “dribble.” 

His butler, who by 1948 was Greenshields, devised a blotting paper ring which looked rather like a very small doughnut. The cigar was pushed through this doughnut so that the ring was about one to two inches from the mouth: an inelegant but highly effective dribble-catcher.

On one occasion at his London home at Hyde Park Gate, visiting dignitaries arrived to bestow one of many Freedom of the City honours. After the ceremony, a glass of sherry and speeches, WSC said, “Greenshields, bring the cigars.” The butler went away and came back with a cigar box, handing them round. The civic dignitaries lit up, as did Mr. Churchill. He took one puff, hesitated, then fixed a stony stare at Greenshields: “Not these you damn fool!” he said in a stage whisper. Poor Greenshields! He had made the mistake of handing round Mr. Churchill’s best cigars.

While I was with him, the former Prime Minister completed The Gathering Storm, the first volume of his war memoirs. Most of it was crafted at Chartwell, in a beautiful oak panelled room on the first floor (second floor for North Americans —Ed.), fitted out as a study. Very sensitive microphones had been installed here by his U.S. publishers so that he might record his draft manuscript. This he did by walking up and down the room and speaking as thoughts came into his head. The tape recorder did not last; WSC soon became frustrated with the mechanics and the wires on the floor, and reverted to his former method of dictating to secretaries.

He’d stop at his stand-up desk and refer to official war papers made available to him by the government, and other references acquired for the purpose. At times he would comment or read from them. Then his narrative would continue. He worked here in the evenings regularly after dinner, and perhaps would continue till one or two in the morning before going to bed. At 8 o’clock in the morning a secretary would arrive for the tapes to start transcriptions, while WSC perused all the national newspapers. At 9 o’clock another secretary would arrive and start dealing with the mail. Yet another came later for other business. Mr. Churchill kept them all fully occupied.

When anyone came to his staff, Churchill treated them much as one of the family. We all know how plainly we speak to one’s spouse or children: no discourtesy is intended but there are no frills. This is how Churchill treated his staff. He just told them what he expected. His plain speaking ruffled some. but he was not being rude. It was just his way of getting the maximum done in the minimum of time. He worked his staff to the limit of endurance. When they reached the breaking point he became sympathetic and solicitous. They were gratified, and so continued beyond the limit of endurance!

An interesting aspect of my job was being able to meet the numerous famous people who visited him: Field Marshals Alexander and Montgomery, General Smuts, Lord Ismay, the Duke of Windsor, and many foreign notables. I noticed that nearly all the world figures who came to call on the then-Labour government also came to see Churchill—privately, of course, for he was in opposition. Many called before and after they had their official meetings in Whitehall. This did nothing to popularize WSC with the Attlee people.

His reputation for brusqueness was strengthened by his handling of the lesser dignitaries who visited. He had the habit of summing people up after two sentences of conversation. They were classified, it seemed to me, as either “interesting” or “uninteresting.” With the former, conversation ensued; with the latter, Churchill would ignore them. On such occasions Mrs. Churchill frequently came to the rescue, engaging the luckless in conversation. If they were tongue-tied she would do
most of the talking until it was time for them to leave. Mrs. Churchill was a charming woman, who rescued many social and civic events because of the inability of her husband to engage in small talk.

Everyone is familiar with the wonderful Churchillian phrases, but they nevertheless came to me as a shock on some occasions. For example, he might take his dog for a walk in the garden. He’d reach for his hat and stick and Rufus, a small, red-coloured poodle, would jump up. He’d open the door and say something like this: “Come Paprika—let us go forward together.”