Bowler Hats in the Saddle

In his bed, surrounded by mountains of papers and scurrying, harried aides, 76-year-old Winston Churchill buckled down to work. He wasn't ill; he just likes to operate as much as possible from bed. After his first cabinet meeting, Churchill bluntly announced that senior ministers' salaries would be slashed 20% and that his own pay would be cut from $28,000 to $19,600. In addition, said Churchill, there would be "large reductions in the use of ministerial motorcars." The cuts will be effective "during the period of rearmament, or for three years, whichever ends first."

It was a gesture in the grand Churchillian manner. In itself, it would save little (about $80,000 to date), and the well-heeled Tory ministers could easily afford it. But psychologically, it put the Tories in a better position to trim national expenditures, and its subtle implication was that within three years the Tories would have Britain shipshape again.

By midweek, Churchill had completed his cabinet. Most of the plums went to old friends and to trusted wartime lieutenants:

P: Lord Leathers, 67, Minister of War Transport in World War II, got the job of running the nationalized industries (coal, gas, electricity, railroads, civil aviation and road transport).

P: Oxford Philosopher-Physicist Lord Cherwell (rhymes with "Ah well"), a 65-year-old teetotaler and vegetarian who, as Professor Lindemann, was Churchill's wartime scientific adviser, moved into No. 11 Downing Street, next door to Churchill, as Paymaster-General. His real assignment: to speed up Britain's lagging atomic energy program, and get a British-produced bomb ready for testing within six months.

P: Stiff, formal Captain Harry Crook-shank, 58, a Tory whose shiny top hat, worn in the House of Commons, enrages Labor backbenchers, became Leader of the House. Anthony Eden had originally got the job, but decided that he couldn't do right by it and be Foreign Secretary too. Crookshank, as Minister of Health, will also run the socialized health service.

For the Tory Party's "Young Turks," Churchill had a handful of lesser, though worthy, plums. The best: John Selwyn Lloyd, 47, a World War II brigadier who won the U.S. Legion of Merit, was made right bower to Anthony Eden with the title "Minister of State, Foreign Office." The most talked about young Tory, gentleman-farmer David Eccles, 47, after waiting nervously for a week while 32 other jobs were filled, was made Minister of Works.

On the whole, Churchill's cabinet looked pretty good to almost everybody. The Tailor & Cutter, London's august arbiter of men's fashions, captivated by the Churchill ministry's "recognition of the Edwardian look" and "its disciplined adoption of the formal white stiff collar and town-wear bowler hat," said that the new cabinet is "the best dressed we have had for a number of years."

Yet, oddly enough, there was gloom in Torydom's own stronghold, the "City" (London's financial district). Perhaps it was disappointment at the narrowness of Churchill's victory, or fear that an excess profits tax would be imposed. Whatever the reason, government securities tumbled downhill; at week's end, gilt-edge stocks had plummeted to a postwar low. With an adverse trade balance of $336 million in the month of September, Britain faced foul economic weather. The City--and the rest of the nation--waited anxiously for the King's Speech (drafted by Churchill, approved by the cabinet) to see what the man at the helm proposed to do about it.

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