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up to the job.’
    Oh, but she was. Sawyers had already made sure of that. A niece of Mrs Landemare’s husband. French, but almost one of the family.
    â€˜I’ll do me best,’ the servant sighed, turning away to tend to the guests, and to smile.
    In the valley below, the huddle of technicians had broken and a man was waving his arm furiously. From on top of the viewing hill, an officer of the Royal Artillery returned the signal and came hurrying across to Churchill.
    â€˜Permission to proceed, Prime Minister?’
    â€˜Unless you’d prefer us all to freeze first.’
    And there was more waving, and scurrying to a safe distance in the valley below, followed by several tense moments of—nothing. While Churchill stamped his foot in impatience, the Americans turned and smiled graciously. The moments stretched. The senior officers seemed grim and the Ministers embarrassed. Yet suddenly, beneath them, the mists parted like a biblical sea and they saw the rocket beginning to climb into the air. It was hesitant at first, as though uncertain of its direction, the steam and smoke from its motor bursting forth in fits andstarts, until it had climbed to perhaps fifty feet in height. Then the engine coughed. The rocket seemed to lose faith. It pitched over.
    It was at this point, as all seemed lost, that the machine found its life once more and roared into action. It headed straight for the group on top of the hill, leaving a trail of angry, swirling vapours behind it. The circling crows cried in alarm as everyone on the ground scattered like mice, their sticks flying, hats tumbling, all dignity gone, until with one final bullying roar the weapon embedded itself not twenty feet from where they had been standing.
    Sawyers alone had not moved. As the smoke and panic finally dissolved, the others collected their wits and fallen headgear, and rose to find him still holding a tray brimming with glasses. Not a drop had been spilled.
    Churchill was panting; he had shown surprising agility for a man of his years. As the others gathered round he waved in the direction of the stillsmouldering rocket. ‘Needs a little tweaking, don’t you think?’
    â€˜Winston,’ Hopkins said, reaching for a drink, ‘if it does that to us, think what it might do to the damned Germans. You might yet win the war. Terrorize them into surrender.’
    â€˜Yes, somehow cannonballs seem so much more logical. In celebration of which I think perhaps weshall watch the Nelson film tonight,’ Churchill announced.
    â€˜Lucky man, was the admiral,’ Sawyers muttered as he gathered up the remaining glasses.
    â€˜What are you grumbling about, man?’
    â€˜A pot o’ powder and a bit o’ breeze, that’s all he ever asked. Like a personal valet, he was. Only thing he ever wanted was tools to finish the job. One extra maid. How are we supposed to manage wi’ just one extra maid?’
    â€˜The tools to finish the job?’ Suddenly Churchill let out a roar of merriment and clapped the servant on the shoulder. ‘Sawyers, at times you can be brilliant. You are simply too stupid to realize the fact. Ah, but you are fortunate to serve a man like me, someone who is able to pick the diamonds out from the slag heap of your mind.’
    Sawyers stared back blankly.
    â€˜Hurry up, man,’ Churchill barked. ‘We’ll be wanting luncheon in a little while.’ And with that he strode happily down the hill.
    The broadcast he made the following evening from Chequers was his first in five months. It was still being written right up to the moment of delivery. It bore no resemblance to any earlier draft, for Sawyers’ moment of insight had unleashed a flood of fresh thoughts.
    Churchill sat at his working table surrounded by the books and oil paintings that filled the walls of the Hawtrey Room, his back to the fire, his script lit by nothing more than a single bulb beneath a green shade,