Maclean hesitated, then speared the olive from his martini, popped it in his mouth, and shrugged.
“What could he possibly say that he hasn’t said? He’s no longer the PM, out of favor, yesterday’s dishwater.”
“Power exists in his words, Donald. You can’t just write him off.”
“You’re right, of course. You can never write off the old boy. He’s done us a great favor, rallying the troops, a real cheerleader for the empire, the vaunted empire.”
Maclean shook his head and snickered.
“I’m afraid the bloody old empire is going to shrink a bit in the next few years, Spence. Those Tory lions are not in vogue these days. The future is elsewhere.”
He stopped abruptly as if he were choking off a desire to say more.
“Never ceases to amaze me how you Brits could turn that party out of office after they were instrumental in winning the war. Not exactly a grateful nation.”
“You forget, Spence, acrimonious British politics was suspended during the war. The Brits were one, and Winnie was the conductor of our patriotic orchestra. ‘Blood, sweat, and tears,’ remember that?” He gave a good imitation of the former Prime Minister. “What can he possibly say that we haven’t heard before? Hit on the Russians? He’s done that before. We are in an era of good faith, Spence. We love our Russian friends now and have great residual feeling for their enormous sacrifice. Uncle Joe is still a cuddly old bear. Our former PM is running against the tide, old boy.”
“Maybe so, but….”
Maclean was not to be stopped.
“The Russians can barely pull themselves together. The destruction of their country has been massive. They deserve our pity and our friendship. Whatever he says won’t make a dent, except in the most rightist circles. Spencer, we are moving in the opposite direction. The Socialists are in charge in Britain now.”
Benson dismissed his talk as butt kissing for the new government, bureaucratic ass kissing.
“The king is dead, long live the king.”
“Still, why Fulton? I can understand Harry’s motives, but why Churchill? Is he merely obliging a friend?”
“Oh, I doubt they’re friends,” Maclean said. He lowered his voice, “Truman has nothing in common with the old Tory. I’d say he and Churchill are oil and water. Imagine the grandson of the Duke of Marlborough and the son of Lord Randolph with this….”
Maclean left the sentence unfinished, then sipped his drink, and began again.
“FDR must be spinning in his grave for perpetrating this unintended consequence. For whatever political reasons that flogged him on, the poor man deliberately tapped a border-state nonentity. Beware of what you wish for, Spence.”
Not wanting to turn off a source, Spencer held back any hint of resentment. He didn’t like this charming but snobby Brit to badmouth his presidents — not that he didn’t partially agree. But Truman’s decision to drop the bomb showed extraordinary courage and did end the war.
Maclean had emptied his martini glass, and Benson sensed that he would order another.
“Not for me,” he said quickly.
“Let’s order then,” Maclean said, adding, “I wouldn’t give the speech that much credence, Spencer.” He lowered his voice. “Let’s face it, Benson. The man’s an icon. Trust me, his fame will fade in time. But in terms of power politics, I’d say he’s out of the loop.”
Maclean’s dismissal of Churchill struck him as ingenuous.
The lunch left him troubled. When he got back to the office, he put in a call to Sarah Churchill. Forgetting the time difference, he apparently roused her from sleep. He knew she would be testy and hungover.
“Why can’t the world operate on one time zone?” she said, hoarsely.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah. Could you call me later at the paper?”
“No, no, Spence. Just give me a few minutes to pull myself together.” She giggled. “I am alone, darling.”
He waited through a long pause, but the tinkle of ice in her glass gave a clue to what was happening.
“So, how are things in the capital of our colonies, darling?”
“Hopping,” he said, with some indifference. He wanted to avoid the small talk and get right to the point.
“I’d like to interview your father, Sarah. Soft stuff. A feature on what the great man is doing in his retirement.”
“How endearing.”
“It’s business, baby. You’re my source.”
“You mean sauce or source?” she teased. “I did enjoy you as the former.”
“You’re deflecting, Sarah,” he said, with mock sternness.
She sighed and paused. He could picture her taking another sip of Johnny Black, her father’s choice as well.
“Both he and Mother are in Miami. I’ll be visiting them in a few days. Got a week’s reprieve from this dreary flick we’re doing. I need family solace to compensate for a wretched script.”
Spencer knew that despite outbursts of rebellion, Sarah sought her parent’s comfort in times of stress.
“Really, Sarah. Can you set it up for me?”
“Using me, are you, Spencer?” she giggled. Obviously, the alcohol was improving her mood. “But then you can use me anytime you feel the urge.”
“Too rich for my blood, Sarah,” he muttered, but with a deliberate lilt.
He was indeed using her and had no intention of getting back on her treadmill of perpetual need. But then he did understand that she had a heavy burden to bear, considering her father’s celebrity. She was without illusions about being a stick figure in her father’s spotlight. The role had considerably stunted her sense of self-worth.
“My understanding is that Father does not want to give any interviews. Not before his speech in….” She groped for the name.
“Fulton, Missouri.”
“Sounds right. Oh yes, Westminster College. I thought it would be nice for him to go, poor dear. He’s rather flummoxed with his move from Number 10, although he’s getting over it. For what it’s worth, I encouraged him to go. The President himself is making the introduction.”
He was surprised at her knowledge. Perhaps the relationship with her father was closer than he realized.
“What will he talk about?”
He hoped his inquiry sounded casual, only mildly interested.
“As always, darling. The big picture.”
“State of the world?”
“What else? Obviously, he does not wish to leave the world stage. He has a great sense of the dramatic… as if you hadn’t heard.”
“Runs in the family, Sarah.”
“His stage is a lot bigger than mine, darling.”
There it was, he thought, a tiny chink in the family armor, a brief glimpse of resentment, perhaps jealousy.
“Please try, Sarah. Put a feather in my cap.”
“Only if you tickle me with it, darling,” she said, ending the conversation with polite amenities and no promises of assistance.
He had almost given up hope, when Sarah called him a few days later from Miami.
“Come on down and toast your buns, darling.”
“You’ve done it?” he asked expectantly.
“I was a bit oblique. Father is having his portrait painted. He’s sort of trapped. Loves the idea of the result but not the process. I told him I had this very intelligent newspaper friend from Washington. I think the Washington bit got him interested.”
The paper booked him a stateroom on the Miami overnight train, and he spent the time pouring over material he had managed to cull through the Star’s extensive files on Churchill and some books he had cadged from his contacts at the Library of Congress. He figured that knowledge of Churchill’s early days might be ingratiating as an opening gambit. The man’s career was amazing. More than once, he had risen from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix.