“Yes, Sir. Abertillery, Monmouthshire, South Wales. Coal-mining town.”
“Then you will know of Tonypandy?”
“It was a bit before my time, but yes, I certainly do.”
In 1910, miners in Tonypandy, South Wales, had gone on strike for better wages and conditions. Churchill, as home secretary, sent soldiers in to support the police and mine owners. There was violence, and several miners were killed. Understandably, he was remembered and not much liked in South Wales.
“In my defense, I did not do what they say I did.”
“Perhaps not, Sir, but the Welsh have long memories. My grandfather has never forgiven Edward I for building his castles in Wales.”
Churchill’s eyes widened. “That was over six hundred years ago.”
“True, but my grandfather says he knew a man who knew a man who knew Edward and said he was not a kind person. Always complaining about the weather or lazy brickies, and spoke terrible Welsh,” she said and laughed at his expression. “But, in fairness, my grandad was known to tell a wild tale or two after a few pints of Webb’s finest pale ale.”
Churchill held back his own laughter. This was, after all, meant to be a serious meeting.
“I do have a question, before we go any farther. Why am I being interviewed by the prime minister?” Caitrin asked. “And why in a cupboard, of all places?”
“I will come to that in due course, but only if I consider you the right candidate. I have more questions.”
Caitrin raised a graceful hand and, without looking around, pointed behind her. “Before you start, Prime Minister, would you ask the gentleman in the corner to move to at least the edge of my vision? I feel uncomfortable having someone staring at the back of my head.”
Churchill nodded at Thompson, who was surprised she had noticed him and shifted his seat so he could be seen.
“Now, young lady, let’s begin the interview,” Churchill said. “Who are your heroes?”
“That’s easy.” Her answer was immediate. “My father and my mother.”
“Why?”
“Because to take care of his family my dad went down the pit every day and cut coal. Then he came home, coughed, and spat up black filth. And when he died from black lung, my mother looked after us, without a penny of pension or compensation.”
The laughter was gone.
He asked, “And who else? Think hard. One more.”
“Easy again.” Caitrin’s chin tilted. “Keir Hardie is another, for caring about the working man and woman enough to create the Labour Party. Who is your hero?”
The question was unexpected.
“That would be John Churchill, first duke of Marlborough. A self-made man and a general who never lost a battle.”
“I read your biography of him, all four volumes.”
“And?”
“I could have done it just as well in three.”
And now Churchill did laugh. This young woman was a cleansing, boisterous wind in a dark time. “With your background and admiration for Keir Hardie, I assume you are a socialist?”
“Fervent.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“It means that after the war, the aristocracy should be, will be, dismantled and the country estates divided up for the people. We will bring an end to centuries of inbred titled parasites doing nothing to validate their existence but feed off the people.”
“Bold steps. And what will you do with royalty?”
“They will have to work for a living. And we turn Buckingham Palace into a retirement home for old miners.” She was not laughing or smiling.
Churchill grunted and bit the end of his cigar. “Perhaps you are not the right candidate.”
“Fair enough. Come in Number Ten?”
“Your Britain is different from mine, Miss Colline. I believe in the accrued wisdom and guidance of tradition,” Churchill said and lit the cigar, taking his time so he could arrange his thoughts. “Just weeks ago we rescued three hundred and thirty thousand men from the beaches of Dunkirk. Partly at my behest, the press and the BBC hailed it as a mighty achievement.”
“It was.”
“Of a kind, but an evacuation is by no means a victory. We got most of the men back but left behind their equipment, stores, and weapons: one hundred and twenty thousand vehicles, two thousand three hundred artillery pieces, eight thousand Bren guns, ninety thousand rifles, and seven thousand tons of ammunition. It will take many months to re-equip and train them. Meanwhile, the Luftwaffe is bombing England daily, while the Germans are only a few miles away from Dover, waiting for the right time to invade. The British people will be brave and deny it, but they are scared.”
“Should they be?”
“Yes. Our survival is fragile. I’m afraid if the Germans come, we’ll have to fight them with beer bottles.”
“Empty ones, I hope.”
“Our code name for the German invasion is Cromwell.”
