May 7, 2015

Finest Hour 117, Winter 2002-03

Page 19

By GRACE HAMBLIN OBE

FIFTH INTERNATIONAL CHURCHILL CONFERENCE THE ADOLPHUS, DALLAS, 30 OCTOBER 1987


Mr. Chairman, Your Excellency, Mrs. Reves, Ladies and Gentlemen. I must first thank my hosts for the wonderful arrangements they’ve made for me, all the comfort and pleasure they’re giving me, and for having me here. And I must thank you all for your generous hospitality and the way in which you greet me. You make me feel as if you’re all my friends and you bring a very warm corner into my heart.

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I’ve been told that long ago in the House of Commons, a Member made a terribly long and tedious speech, to which Sir Winston, then Mr. Churchill, was to reply. When he finally rose he said, “I’m so glad the Rt Hon Member for So-and-So has spoken for so long; he badly needs the practice.”

I’ve great sympathy with that Member. This is my very first major speech, and I’m sure it will he my last as I’m edging on to 80. I’m not likely to continue this sort of life. But I’m very much in sympathy with him because I found that it’s very, very easy to ramble on and on, as it were, to tell everything. But to make a short speech concerning what you, yourself find terribly interesting and in which you are very much involved is the most difficult thing on earth. So I decided that I would confine myself to answering the two questions which are put to me most frequently: First, how ever did you become involved with the Great Man? Second, What was he like to work for?

EARLY ENCOUNTERS

I became involved not through merit—and that is not false modesty. It was really because I lived just around the corner, less than ten minutes away from his home at Chartwell. I’d been working away from home for three or four years and thought myself well launched upon a career which I loved, when a little disaster occurred in our domestic life, and I hurried back home. After a short time it became necessary for me, for I always had to earn my living, to find work close to home. I think God keeps an eye on us all, for in no time an advertisement appeared in the local newspaper: “Assistant required for political and literary work by the secretary at Chartwell. Please apply there.”

I knew nothing whatever of political or literary work. It was far, far beyond me. But it was close to home, just where I wanted it to be. And I knew Chartwell very well. Before Sir Winston bought it in 1922 it had been empty for seven years, and my friends and I had made a playground of the garden. I knew every nook and cranny and I loved it with all my heart. I’d always thought it the most beautiful place on earth. I still do. The thought of working there was really too much, whether I was up to it or not.

So I wrote to the secretary and after a little while I had a letter from her, wondering could I see her in London where she was, because Sir Winston was in hospital with a very bad attack of paratyphoid. I went to London and saw her. As usual, after the interview, she said, “Well, we’re seeing several applicants, we’ll be in touch.” That usually means good-bye, so I put it out of my mind.

About a fortnight later I heard from her again. Mr. Churchill was now at Chartwell recuperating from his illness, “and he would very much like to see you.” Again she said he was interviewing other applicants. So with rather a low sort of heart I went and saw him.

He was sitting up in bed looking very frail and quite small—not at all the big bear I’d expected. He said, “Good morning, good morning, do bring up a chair.” I brought a chair up, fairly close to the bed—a respectful distance, I thought. “Oh, do come closer!” So I pulled it a bit closer. “Do you use a typewriter?” Yes. “Can you do shorthand writing?” Yes. “Oh.” Then a long, long stare. I think everyone who knew him knew that look. He would look at you for a long, long time, not really meaning anything, just thinking. But to a new, quite young person, it was rather embarrassing. However, I sat it out and finally he said, “So you wish to come to me?” Yes, Sir. “Never call me Sir!”That was how it all started.

What he was like to work for is quite a different question. The short answer is that he was difficult, unpredictable, demanding—but what a challenge! I was very fortunate because after his illness he wasn’t working so hard as was his usual habit. He could only dictate 100 words a day, which was very low. So I made an easy beginning. Also, he couldn’t raise his voice so much, which was a great help, I must say!

I think being shouted at was one of the worst things to get over. I’d come from a very quiet family and I’d never been shouted at in my life. But I had to learn it, in time. Even with his convalescence I found it quite daunting: the strangeness of a large house, getting used not only to him, but to his family, his staff and friends who came and  went. It was all quite difficult. I went through many, many doubtful periods and was always comforted by the thought that I would only be there for a few months, and then go back to my old job. But as the weeks went by, I found myself trying hard to please him, to help instead of to hinder. He had a charisma: a way of making one feel wanted, making the most mundane task feel important. Seeing that enough food was on hand for him to feed his golden orfe (which he fed himself) was just as important as seeing if his proofs were in order.

This afternoon, I’ve been looking into a book by a secretary, Phyllis Moir, who worked for him for a little time while he was in America when he had that terrible accident, nearly being killed by a car on Fifth Avenue. She wrote, “He makes you feel as though you were sharing his work and this is very satisfying to the ego.” I’ve never heard anyone describe it so well. It’s exactly the feeling we had. I wish very much that some employers would take note from him. He did make you feel as though you were part of the work, and were sharing in it. You weren’t just a cog in a great wheel —you were going with him.

He worked day in and day out and most terribly hard himself, and I think he drove us. He had a way of almost shaming one into overcoming a problem. His well worn expression was “Find Out.” He would say, for example: “Do you know where Lord Beaverbrook is this weekend?” No, I’m afraid I don’t. “Well, find out!” So one got into the habit of saying, “No, I’m afraid I don’t but I’ll find out.” Which was a much better answer. Another thing he often said, if you looked a little bit doubtful about anything: “But surely you don’t find that difficult?”

Of course, one had to get on with it. He was always quite kind to the newcomer. I lately met a woman who went to him when she was 19. She’s still very pretty and in those days she must have been lovely; she is fair haired and blue eyed, like a fairy. Apparently he said to Lady Churchill when she first appeared, “Oh dear, she’s very young. I mustn’t frighten her!” I can well imagine him saying it. On her first dictation, he said something to her that he never said to me: “Don’t worry if you don’t get it all—I always remember what I’ve said.” He did indeed remember, more or less, but it didn’t get you out of making mistakes all the same.

IN THE WILDERNESS

Chartwell in the Thirties, in the Wilderness Years, made one think of a citadel, or one should say a haven. Physically it is, as a lot of you know, the most beautiful place, and he thought it the most wonderful place too; he was never happier than when he was there. So into this lovely, private world came peers and potentates as well as ordinary men, to discuss the threat of war, which was his main concern. There also came literary friends, political colleagues, painting friends and of course his family and friends of his children as well as his own generation. Of this period he was to write much later, “With my happy family around me, I dwelt in peace within my habitation.”

This was a feeling we all had at Chartwell in the 1930s. Although there was so much going on, it didn’t affect that lovely, warm place where his family were. When we were driving down, perhaps from a day in London and the House of Commons, as we got to the precinct, he’d cast everything aside. All the papers would go flying and the car rug on the floor; the dog would be pushed aside, the secretary pushed aside, everything pushed aside, ready to leap out. And he’d say, “Ah, Chartwell.” Personally I’d always felt the same and wanted to say, “Yes, ah, Chartwell.”

In the wilderness years he worked like a tiger to keep up his literary output. It was his living, and he wasn’t terribly well off. He was working hard just then on the life of his ancestor, Marlborough, and this was what really kept him going far into the night. He would start about ten o’clock in the evening, after dinner, and the secretaries (during those years there were only two of us, Mrs. Pearman and myself) worked alternately. The one who went home early went at seven, and the one who was on late duty had dinner there and waited until he was ready. He would keep on and on and on until he’d gone as far as he wanted to. His dictation wasn’t difficult because it was very, very slow and he weighed his words. As one knows he had a tremendous command of the English language, but he didn’t use it loosely. He considered very carefully what he was going to say. I think the difficulty was to know which word he really meant you to put down. You would hear him mutter so often the same phrase in a different way. This is what night work consisted of.

Speeches were always very exciting. First they’d be dictated and taken down in shorthand. In those days there weren’t the same machines as there are now. The drafts would be corrected time and again, and finally put into Speech Form, which I think most of you know. It was very important to put it as he was going to say it. You could easily put him out if you entered a line in the wrong place. Also he had a way of shortening his words. “Ch of Exch” meant Chancellor of the Exchequer, we all knew that. But “C of E” meant Church of England. I once transposed them. You can imagine what he said about that!

Everyone was so involved in the speeches that later on when I wasn’t doing them I had a touch of envy toward those who were rushing around with sheets and giving him quickly what they’d done, having it corrected quickly and brought back again. He would want about half a dozen copies of each speech. There weren’t the copying machines as there are today; so they were carbon-copied. Just imagine putting in your six carbon copies—it wasn’t funny at all! I think my most notable mistake was when he’d dictated “tenure,” somebody’s tenure of office, and I wrote “ten years of office.’’ I heard a great deal about that. It wasn’t funny at the time.

Also there were “potboilers,” as he called them—articles for magazines or the national newspapers on topical subjects, or on something else. He did a good many articles in those years and they, again, were very exciting because they were done in one evening, quickly put out and sent off usually the next day. He got his money very quickly, which he liked too. We all liked doing potboilers.

Then there was his constituency work. Although in the Thirties he was no longer in office, he was still a Member of Parliament, and this meant a great deal of correspondence, all of which flowed from Chartwell. No wonder he called it his “factory.” He would bring visitors along to the office and say, “Do come and see my factory.” Once I was there alone and he brought someone in and said, “This is my factory. This is my secretary.” Then a pause: “And to think I once commanded the fleet.”

Also on a similar occasion when he’d brought someone along, he said, “This is my secretary. She’s quite uneducated.” The visitors, as well as I, felt terribly embarrassed. There was a terrible pause, and he said, “but she arranges flowers beautifully.” Which made it much, much worse!

HOBBIES AND ANIMALS

He was known to say that everyone should have a hobby or two, or three, and this he certainly did himself. Almost involuntarily and certainly without meaning to do so—sometimes, I’m afraid, reluctantly—one had to identify with his hobbies as well as his work. The wall he was building (the right bricks to order, the right number); his paints (what sort of paints he required, the colours to order)—this all came into a day’s work. He painted over 500 pictures in his lifetime; this was quite a big thing with him. Sometimes one had to accompany him to nearby venues where he was going to paint, if only to clean the brushes afterward. Still, you had to be there with your notebook and pencil. We always had notebook and pencil at the ready. In fact, when I left off working for him, I found it difficult to be without one .

One of his most endearing qualities was his love of animals. He surrounded himself with them. In his out of door peregrinations—building a wall, making a dam or an island, touring the farm, feeding the fish or his beloved black swans—he was always accompanied by a dog. In the early days this was a pug, which didn’t suit him at all really. Later there was his faithful poodle, Rufus.

Rufus, I’m sorry to say, took rather a liking to me. Poodles are very one-man dogs, you know. And this made Sir Winston rather cross. He’d say, with his head down, “You’ve stolen my dog’s affection.” I didn’t, really. It was just that I was there, and I took him for walks which nobody else did. No wonder the dog liked me. He was a good dog, because after Sir Winston had been away, he would always welcome him back—which was very decent of him.

When Rufus died, I had him at Chartwell, and Sir Winston happened at that time to be in hospital in London with a broken hip. I telephoned to Lady Churchill and asked her what action she’d like me to take because Rufus was quite a big thing in our lives. She said, “You’d better write him a little note and I’ll take it along to him.” She told me afterwards that when he read it the tears came to his eyes. He was very emotional and tears came easily. He had said, “Poor Miss, she must have a puppy.” So you see, I was forgiven.

Indeed he did give me a puppy, a little black poodle. To order it he asked the man who looked after his stud, a very splendid vet. The vet told me afterwards, which he should not have done. Sir Winston had asked him, “Would you find a little puppy for Miss? I think she’d like a black poodle. You know, she lives alone so it’s for company. A runt will do.” He wasn’t really mean—he just thought it a pity to spend too much money.

Tropical fish was a hobby begun by a little boy. We always celebrated Sir Winston’s birthdays—quite expansively when we were at the London house. Once a little boy of about ten brought a tin of black mollies to the door: “A gift for the Prime Minister on his birthday.” It was taken in to him in his bedroom, and he said, “Whatever’s this?” These are black mollies. “Can I keep them?” I said, “Oh no, you’ll have to keep them in hot water, they’re tropical fish.” (I was a beast. I thought it would mean my looking after them.)

He said, “Right, take them to Chartwell, and get an expert down.” The next day we took them to Chartwell and an expert was called in who told us how to look after the tanks and how to keep the fish and from then on the tropical fish expanded terrifically. He had a lovely lot of them. We still keep a few in the study as a token.

That must have been in the 1950s because when he was Prime Minister the second time he took them to Chequers. In the Hawtrey Room, which was lined with tapestries, he developed five tanks which looked simply beautiful against this backdrop. When he left office in 1955, I’m almost ashamed to say, I said we couldn’t look after them at Chartwell and they went to the zoo. But he was allowed to keep one tank.

There were pigs. He was never more pleased than when my father fixed a wire at the end of a pole and gave it to him as a back-scratcher for his favourite pig. I’m sure everybody knows his wonderful saying to his daughter: “Dogs are too dependent. Cats are too independent. Give me a pig! He looks you straight in the eye like an equal.”

And of course there were horses. Quite late in life he took to keeping racing horses and had a stud nearby. He used to love going to the races and if his horse won, when he came back he would say, “Did you put anything on it?” I never had any money to put on horses, so I’d say no. “You must be a fool!”

He had, once, a lovely budgerigar which would be set free in the room wherever he was. In the dining room, great strategy was used to keep him from pecking the salt, which was bad for budgies. He’d have a peck at the whisky instead. He would sit sometimes on a visitor’s head, with dire results. He was a true delight to Sir Winston and when he flew away during a stay in the south of France, never to be seen again, we all felt our master’s pang of grief.

There were butterflies. In the Thirties he had a little hut in the garden, which is still there. In those days he had the front covered with gauze, with a gauze door opening into it. A nearby butterfly farm sent him chrysalises which he liked to see develop. One morning, I was with him spreading out the chrysalises, and he left the door of the little hut open. I said, “Did you want to leave the door open, or should I close it?” He said, “I can’t bear this captivity any longer!’’ Thus we no longer kept butterflies, but they are supposed to remain in the garden once you start. It’s a lovely occupation. When he knew that Chartwell would eventually go to the National Trust and be open to the public he said, “I hope the Na tional Trust will grow plenty of buddleia for my butterflies.”

There are cat stories galore. He loved cats. So do I, and he knew it. He always had a cat, if not two. I must tell you one lovely cat story, way back in the Thirties. He came to his door one morning with some papers in his hand and the cat was sitting in the passage. “Good morning, Cat.” But Cat didn’t answer—it was one of those horrible snooty things. So he said again, “Good morning, Cat.” The cat made no effort to be near him. He slashed at it with his papers and it ran from the house. Cat didn’t return the next day, or the next, or the next. Finally he said, “Do you think it’s because I hit him?” Of course I said, “Yes, definitely.”

That evening I was whiling away my time while the family had dinner downstairs, when Sarah came up and said, “Hambone, I have a message for you from Papa. He said if you like you may go home, and if you wish before you go, you may put a card in the window to say that if Cat cares to  come home, all is forgiven.” Cat did come home several days later with a wire around his neck. Given cream and the best salmon and so on, he did recover, I’m glad to say.

There were the golden orfe which still float in the pool at Chartwell, lovely orange-gold, rather like a large goldfish and very attractive. He loved to feed them every day himself, from grain in a box which still stands beside the seat of the pool. And not only with grain, but with live maggots—which, believe it or not, came from a distant town in Yorkshire. They came in tins with large labels saying “Live Maggots—Immediate.” In those days there was a railway station in Westerham which no longer exists. From here the porter would ring up and say, “Is that the secretary? Yer maggots are here, Miss.”

Sir Winston’s proofs would come from the printer in the same way and the dear porter, with whom we kept a friendly rapport, would say the same thing: “Yer proofs are here, Miss.” One had to shoot off in the car to get either. Each had its own importance, and each was as important as the other.

The black swans were a gift to him from Australia, which he fed himself. “I’m going to feed the black swans,” and off he would go. If any message came, we always had to find him, wherever he was, so we too would have to go down to the black swans. Just near the pool the ground slopes steeply and at one time we had a funny little old Morris, called the “staff car,” which we used to go about in. This was rather late in his life and he had reached the stage when he’d still feed the swans but didn’t care to walk back—someone would have to fetch him. One day he said to me, “You can fetch me at four o’clock.” I didn’t fancy driving the car down there—I thought I might end up in the lake. So I replied, “It’s very slippery down there.” “Yes,” he said, “fetch me at four o’clock.” That was it, you see. That was it….

He had, after the war, a cinema, to which he took a great fancy, and loved it, because he loved films. He’d see one every other evening, if possible. But it was impossible to find enough good films. “Lady Hamilton” was his favorite, of course. Once we saw “Jane Eyre.” The next day he gave me one of those long, long stares and said, “Just like Jane Eyre.” I wasn’t at all flattered. I never really knew what he meant, whether it was looks or demeanor or what. And when he was disappointed with his film he would say, “I’m very badly served,” which put us all in the doghouse.

THE JOURNEY THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN

Don’t imagine that our lives were spent entirely in the idyllic surroundings of Chartwell. We were always on the move: a quick day at the House of Commons, a weekend in one of the big country houses with his friends, sometimes with his paintings. When there was no work, a secretary still had to accompany him. In the early days there were visits to Blenheim where he was researching Marlborough. There was electioneering, and speaking in the country, which, oh dear, reminds one of dictation in the train and in the car—never easy! There were holidays abroad. He always took a secretary and this was very enjoyable. I also had my share with Lady Churchill. I was very fortunate to go with her to Canada, the States, Carthage, Morocco, Tunisia and (I think most eventful of all) a wonderful tour of Russia from Leningrad down to the Black Sea. The journeys would fill a book.

In 1936 there was the only one I’m going to tell you about, the journey that didn’t happen. A lot happened to our little domestic circle in 1936. First of all it was the year of the Abdication, and there was a great deal going on in the political world. In our own little world, “Mrs. P” as he called her, dear Mrs. Pearman, fell and hurt her back, and was often away from work. Although she took her work home, I’m afraid that quite often I was alone. It was a very hectic year.

Towards the end of 1936 he thought he would go to visit friends in South America, quite alone except for me. I was very excited. I had never been on such a journey before and of course we were going on one of the big liners, which was much nicer than it is now. I spent all my savings on a suitable trousseau. You mustn’t laugh at this because it wasn’t really funny, but he gave me £10 to spend on a dress. In those days £10 would possibly buy me two dresses, so it wasn’t a trifle. I had my Christmas at home beforehand to be ready for him, and all sorts of preparations went ahead. Twenty-four hours before we were due to go the whole thing was cancelled. He said, “Are you very disappointed?” Well, I am. “Well, you can keep the £10.” Little did he know I had spent it over and over!

FRABJOUS DAYS

Even at the height of his statesmanship he didn’t lose what I like to call the common touch. He seemed to sense what would please people. For instance, when my father was dying, he sent him port. Father couldn’t possibly drink it, yet nothing brought such a glow to his eyes. In the town of Westerham once a year we have a gala day and a notable person is asked to crown the Queen of the May. It came to be Sir Winston’s turn, and he was very pleased. As we left the house he was very jolly about it all. In the town before the ceremony, a little boy aged about ten came to him with a very sticky bag of sweets and offered him one. Most people would have refused, but he took one and put it in his pocket, saying “Thank you so much. Do you mind if I keep it until after my lunch?” The people in Westerham still speak of this.

There was a funny old gypsy living in the district, called Donkey Jack, because he had a donkey and trap, and a wife and a dog. My father, who was a farmer, called him a parasite, because he lived on stolen potatoes, strawberries and apples. But Sir Winston had a more romantic view. He thought it was wonderful. When Donkey Jack died, and his donkey had to be destroyed, there was nowhere for poor Mrs. Donkey Jack to go. It wouldn’t be safe for her to live on common land. Sir Winston allowed her to live in his wood, in a little gazebo which had been there for donkey’s years, full of earwigs and that sort of thing, but she loved it. It would have been stupid to offer her a house because she wouldn’t have understood it. He knew just what would give her pleasure.

For me, one thing gave the greatest of pleasure. He became Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports in 1941. Chartwell was closed and empty during the war, but when we returned, in 1946, he wanted immediately to fly the Cinque Ports flag, to which he had a right. We had to put up a pole and the flag had to be made.

Every time I saw him he would say, “Where is that flag, hasn’t it come yet?” He got very, very impatient. I got to the state where I really didn’t care to meet him because I knew I’d be asked about the flag! Eventually it arrived and was put up. We had to put little notes before him about events such as that. One didn’t just tell him. I put a little note on his desk: “Mr. Churchill, Cinque Ports flag has arrived and Alan has put it up.” He wrote in his own hand underneath, “Callooh! Callay! Oh frabjous day! And so he chortled in his joy.” I expect most of you know this is from Alice in Wonderland. What he knew was how fond I was of Alice in Wonderland.

ON TRUST AND LOYALTY

He taught us all there is to know about loyalty. While he could be very angry, and say so in no mean way to oneself, he would never deprecate one secretary to another except of course in general terms: “She can’t spell,” that sort of thing. But not on any important issue. He rarely gave praise, but when he did it meant very much to us. Elizabeth Nel, who worked for him a great deal during the war and later wrote of her experiences, recalls how she had a very bad cold and was sniveling when he sent for her. He dictated a very brief message and then took it from her: “That’s most beautifully typed.” He said this thinking she was sniveling because of his anger beforehand.

Once I remember meeting him in the passage when I was feeling rather low. I think he must have read it on my face because he said, “My dear, you carry very heavy responsibilities,” which cheered me up no end.

We always had to say Good Night before leaving the house. After a particularly trying day one would be dismissed with, “Good night, my dear, it wasn’t your fault.” (It probably was, which made it much worse.) On the other hand, he could as easily say, “I’ve been very badly served”—which was the worse possible indictment.

He trusted people implicitly, almost too much. One felt this especially at Chartwell, where it was sacred ground, and he liked to feel he had people of good will around him. One evening Rufus, his dog, came in bleeding from his mouth. It transpired that he had a broken jaw. Sir Winston said, “How do you think this could have happened?” Rather stupidly I said, “Oh, I think someone kicked him.” He was cross with me for suggesting that anyone at Chartwell would possibly injure his dog.

He had a very dishonest employee who was not only stealing the eggs but the chickens as well. I let it go on for some time, but eventually I thought he must know. So I told him. He gave me one of those long, long stares and said, “Well, you don’t like anyone!”

He was very hospitable. The gates at Chartwell, which are now closed for security, were always open, and generally the front door, too. If, when he went out for a walk and there were a group of people at the gate—which there often were because they loved a glimpse of him—he would say, “Do come and see my golden orfe.” They would troop in and it was always a great treat to everyone.

Strangely, for someone of that calibre, he didn’t like having meals alone. If there were no family or friends, a secretary would have to sit with him. On one of these occasions after dinner, he said, “Do have some brandy, my dear.” No thank you. “Oh come along do.” No. No. “Why not?” Well, I couldn’t possibly work if I had brandy. “I don’t know—if I’d have been your father I’d have educated you.”

On one of these occasions, about four o’clock in the afternoon, I think I was alone with him, and he said, “You’ll dine with me tonight.” Oh, I’m terribly sorry but I’m dining out. “Oh—who with?” A friend. “Lady or Gentleman?” I must tell you I was in my 50s if not my 60s, so…gentleman. “Oh well, he must come too.” I remember being terribly cross because my friend, of course, was delighted—enchanted! He dined on it ever since. It was a great honour to dine with the Prime Minister. But I thought it was terrible for me not to have an evening out.

His witticisms which came so quickly were original and not culled from other people. Many are well known, but here is one, which you may not have heard. We had a chauffeur whose name was Bullock, who only drove the very big car, the big Humber that went to London generally. (Either a detective or a secretary drove Sir Winston in the smaller car about the farm or wherever.) In the morning if he said, “I think I’ll go to the stud today,” one would have to say, “Which car would you like?” If he fancied the big car he would say, “I think I’ll have the bullock cart.”

There was always wonderful talk going on and important and interesting people were forever coming and going. In the early days there were always children’s parties and a huge Christmas tree with Randolph as Father Christmas. There were weekend parties, beautifully arranged by Lady Churchill, with tennis and swimming in the pool which he had designed, or perhaps with serious talk going on for hours up in the study. When he had the farm there were Harvest Homes with the staff gathered in fun, Sir Winston looking benignly on, sipping his whisky and puffing his cigar.

At times the news was bad, a family or political crisis or the Master deep in his work on an important speech, an article or book. Then one could almost hear a pin drop in the house, it seemed for days on end, it was so quiet. Whatever his mood or occupation it seemed the whole household had to follow his trend. In spite of life’s many ups and downs, or perhaps because of them, in this family one found warmth and affection, a tremendous sense of belonging and involvement. Little wonder that long before the end, it had come to mean much more than a job. It was a way of life.

At the end, I went down with the family to the funeral, near his beloved birthplace, Blenheim, and to me that quiet, humble service in the country churchyard was much more moving than had been the tremendous pomp and glory of the state ceremony in London. As the train made its slow journey through the snow-covered countryside on that bitterly cold day, men and women were standing in their little gardens behind their cottages, out in the fields or in the stations as we passed, the men with their heads bared, saying a silent farewell to their hero.

I thought of these people at home, and I thought of you, and the hundreds and hundreds of letters Lady Churchill received from all over the world. I pondered on what had made this dynamic but gentle character so beloved and respected—and such a wonderful person to work for.

I think one found first of all that there was courage. He had no fear of anything, moral or physical. There was sincerity, truth and integrity, for he couldn’t knowingly deceive a cabinet minister or a bricklayer or a secretary. There was forgiveness, warmth, affection, loyalty and, perhaps most important of all in the demanding life we all lived, there was humour, which he had in abundance.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I just want to say a few more words to you if you will bear with me. I hope I shan’t be infringing any copyright or displeasing anyone if I slightly misquote a passage from one of those many, many letters Lady Churchill had received on his death. It came from a distinguished member of your community here in America, and it has always been in my mind.

“That he died is unimportant, for we must all pass away. That he lived is momentous to the destiny of decent men. He is not gone. He lives wherever men are free. He lives in Dallas.”

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