A Sunny Place Out West - Vol. VI

The Chartwell House is where Churchill would come throughout the decades to find rest…Or rather what he considered rest (others would likely classify it as work). It was at Chartwell that the former Prime Minister would write, lay brick, and perhaps most importantly, paint. All activities I can’t see the current Prime Minister doing, but that is beside the point.

The brick vernacular style gave Chartwell a certain English countryside charm that accomplished its intended purpose of being a suitable alternative to the hustling and bustling life in the city.

This was my first-time visiting Chartwell. I had always intended to go but never imagined it would be circumstances such as these that would finally bring me here. It was easy to see why Churchill felt so inspired to capture the landscape views on canvas. What the home alone may have lacked in beauty, the estate itself made up for tenfold; wildlife, ponds, gardens, stables. Chartwell offered a little something for everyone. However, on this gloomy day, I feared it wasn’t going to provide me with what I sought; Churchill’s original paintings.

“Here you are, sir. I was instructed to stay with you all day in case I can be of further assistance.”

“Oh, you don’t need to wait for me. I am not sure how long this will take. Maybe I can just ring the hotel when I need a ride back.” I told the driver.

“If alright with you, sir, I would rather stay here and wait for you, as I was instructed.”

“Who instructed you to do that?”

“Some Americans in cheap suits and wayfarers at the hotel. They said they work for you.”

“I see. Well, you better stay and follow orders then. Just a heads up – I have no idea how long this is going to take.”

“Not to worry, I brought a book with me. Take as much time as you need.” The driver said as he lifted up a fresh paperback copy of the new Ken Follett novel I had been eyeing in the window of the bookstore the night before.

“Good choice. Let me know how it is.” I said, slightly irked that I was not on a park bench with a copy of my own. My day was shaping up to go much differently than I anticipated, and the day seemed to be just beginning.

“Excuse me,” I walked up to one of the men working on the shrubs, “excuse me, sir…” He heard me this time.

“Sorry, I was dealing with a difficult spot to trim. What can I help you with?”

“Can you please show me where the painting studio is located?”

The gardener hesitated before responding, “no one is allowed in the painting studio at this time, sorry.” He turned back towards his work.

“I know about the paintings being gone. That is why I am here, on behalf of the Prime Minister.”

The gardener remained uncomfortable, but as he scanned me up and down and saw my car and driver, a part of him must have believed that I was telling the truth.

“Okay, but don’t tell anyone I unlocked the door for you.”

“Of course, I promise. I appreciate your help.”

The gardener led me to the painting studio and unlocked the door.

“Please leave everything just how you found it.”

“Will do. I will let you know as soon as I finish so you can lock the place back up.”

The gardener went back to his post, and I got down to investigating. I immediately realized that there wasn’t much for me to analyze. The walls were completely bare. Every last one of Churchill’s original works, gone.

I walked around the studio but found little other than worthless scraps left behind by whoever removed the art. With not much else to look at other than the blank wall, I took the liberty to take a seat in Churchill’s painting chair. The same chair he would have spent hours on end in, attempting to take his mind off of whatever horrendous struggle he was facing and just paint. I now had a struggle of my own that I had to face, and I had limited time to find a viable solution. I took out my pocket watch and opened it on the easel in front of me, it was nearing 10 AM, and I figured I needed to get out of here before anyone besides the gardener knew about my visit. I lifted myself out of the historic chair and went to track down the gardener.

“Excuse me. I am all set. You can go ahead and lock the studio back up.” The gardener was still working on the same shrub as when I arrived. 

“Thank you for letting me know, sir. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No, unfortunately not, but I don’t think I even know what I am looking for,” I mumbled, somewhat discouraged about my whole situation. My head was looking at my feet as I shuffled around some pebbles on the ground. Then I heard a car engine kick on, and my head jerked up. I could see my driver with his nose still deeply in the paperback, and it clearly wasn’t his car that was running.

“Is someone else here?” I asked the gardener.

“Yes, Mrs. Bernard has been here all morning.”

“Mrs. Bernard? As in the Prime Minister’s wife?”

“No. As in Mrs. Cheryl Bernard, his ex-wife.”

I was utterly confused as to why the Prime Minister’s ex-wife would be hanging around Chartwell, especially today.

“Does she come here often?” I asked.

“A fair amount, she is a member of the London Art Preservation Board.”

“I see.” I said as an oversized SUV sped off, “And is that the typical car she is in?”

“She is normally in a standard black driving car.”

This was curious, but I didn’t want to make a scene about it in front of the workers at Chartwell.

“Thanks for your help today,” I reached out my hand.

“Happy to be of assistance,” the gardener returned the gesture; we shook and left as new pals.

I hopped back in the car, “did you see what way that SUV went?”

“What SUV?” The driver said as he set down his book.

That was a no.

“Do you know where the Prime Minister’s ex-wife lives?”

“Sure, she lives in Edenbridge. She was awarded the house during the divorce.”

“How far away is it from here?”

“Not far, probably a ten to fifteen-minute drive.”

“Great, can you take me there?”

“I guess so. Can I ask why?” The driver asked with hesitation.

“Nope, sorry, but I know you are keen to following orders.”

“So, this is an order?”

“Yes.” I picked up the paperback and began reading the back cover.

“On my way then, sir.” The driver said as he kicked on the car and headed for the Prime Minister’s former home.

As estimated, it was not long before we were at the front gate of the house. I didn’t anticipate the Prime Minister’s ex-wife wanting to buzz us in. At least, I could see the SUV from here, but I would need to peek through the hedge in order to get a better look.

“What do we do now? Do you want me to buzz the gate?” The driver asked.

“No, she can’t know we’re here. I am going to get out to see if I can get a better angle of the SUV.”

“Why do you need to see the SUV?”

“It’s probably better that you don’t ask questions, at least for now,” I said as I exited the car and perched in the hedge to the left of the front gate.

As I looked through the branches and leaves, I still couldn’t see everything, but I could see enough to recognize what was happening.

The Prime Minister’s ex-wife, who was very chic and very attractive, had her curly black hair pulled back in a ponytail and was wearing oversized sunglasses. She pointed her team of movers towards a back entrance to the home; designer bracelets slid down her petit forearm as she directed her underlings.

I couldn’t be 100% sure what was being moved out of the SUV; all I knew was that whatever it was, it required multiple large men to move and could fill four giant wood crates.

What was going on and the extent of the Prime Minister’s ex-wife’s involvement remained unknown for the time being. But one thing was certain, the Prime Minister was not going to like the optics of this, nor did I.

I had the driver take me back to the Ritz Carlton. I needed to try and make sense of the last 24 hours before I talked to the President or the Prime Minister.