A wonderful place! Eighty-four acres of land. A huge green hollow. On one hillock stands the host’s two-storey stone house – large and tastefully presented. The terrace affords a breathtaking view of Kent’s hilly landscape, all clothed in a truly English dark-blue haze. On the other hillock is a beautiful wood. There are ponds in three tiers down the slope of the hill, all with goldfish of varying size: in the upper pond they weigh up to 3–4 pounds, in the next they are somewhat smaller, while the really tiny ones are in the lowest pond at the bottom of the hollow. Churchill is fascinated by his big and small fish; he happily holds forth on their every detail and obviously considers them to be one of England’s most characteristic attractions.

The estate also contains an artificial pool for swimming and bathing, a fine garden, an abundance of fruit (plums, peaches, etc.), a tennis-court, cages with blue birds that can speak in human voices, and a great deal else besides. Churchill took me to a pavilion-cum-studio with dozens of paintings – his own creations – hanging on the walls. I liked some of them very much. Finally he showed me his pride and joy: a small brick cottage, still under construction, which he was building with his own hands in his free time.

‘I’m a bricklayer, you know,’ Churchill said with a grin. ‘I lay up to 500 bricks a day. Today I worked half the day and, look, I’ve put up a wall.’

He slapped the damp and unfinished brickwork with affection and pleasure.

It’s not a bad life for the leaders of the British bourgeoisie! There’s plenty for them to protect in their capitalist system!

Churchill must have guessed my thoughts because, taking in his flourishing estate with one sweeping gesture, he said with a laugh: ‘You can observe all this with an untroubled soul! My estate is not a product of man’s exploitation by man: it was bought entirely on my literary royalties.’

Churchill’s literary royalties must be pretty decent!

Then the three of us had tea – Churchill, his wife and I. On the table, apart from the tea, lay a whole battery of diverse alcoholic drinks. Why, could Churchill ever do without them? He drank a whisky-soda and offered me a Russian vodka from before the war. He has somehow managed to preserve this rarity. I expressed my sincere astonishment, but Churchill interrupted me: ‘That’s far from being all! In my cellar I have a bottle of wine from 1793! Not bad, eh? I’m keeping it for a very special, truly exceptional occasion.’

‘Which exactly, may I ask you?’

Churchill grinned cunningly, paused, then suddenly declared: ‘We’ll drink this bottle together when Great Britain and Russia beat Hitler’s Germany!’

I was almost dumbstruck. Churchill’s hatred of Berlin really has gone beyond all limits!

His wife made a good impression on me. I’d barely known her before now. A lively, intelligent woman who was interested in politics and understood it. With a glance at his wife, Churchill genially remarked: ‘I tell her everything. But she knows how to keep mum. She won’t spill a secret.’

Randolph Churchill wasn’t present. He’s doing three months’ training in the army.