The Darkness and the Thunder

by Stewart Binns

  He then tells them the stories of great battles of the past: Blenheim, Waterloo, Trafalgar, and Omdurman, in which he himself took part. He holds the children in the palm of his hand, a master of detail and a vivid storyteller.

  At ten thirty the family members are ready to depart for their lunch in Richmond. As they rush down into the Admiralty courtyard Winston is approached by a signals officer who pulls him to one side.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid, sir. The Formidable has gone down off Portland Bill – German torpedoes.’

  He hands Winston a telegram. It reads: ‘Hit at 02:20 hours and again as she sank. Went down just before 05:00 hours. Skipper, Captain Noel Loxley, and more than half the complement, 750 men, have gone with her.’

  Winston beckons to FE and Jack. ‘Do you mind if I rush back inside? Don’t mention it to the girls – it will spoil their day – but we’ve lost a battleship, Formidable, and most of the crew. Bloody submarines! They’re a curse.’

  Jack sees the weariness in his brother’s eyes. ‘Would you prefer it if we didn’t go? We could go to St James’s Park and feed the ducks and come back and keep you company for lunch.’

  ‘No, that would spoil the day for the children. The river would be much better. There will be lots of entertainment to amuse the little ones, quite apart from you in your long johns.’

  Winston tries to smile at the thought of his brother in a swimming costume, but it does not come; he’s unable to disguise his devastation at the news about Formidable. He turns to look up Whitehall to see Lord Nelson on his column. ‘War was so different in his day and, indeed, in mine, which was only a dozen or so years ago.’

  The young political firebrand, revered and reviled in equal measure by his peers, who cares so deeply about his country and its fighting men, squeezes his eyes to fight back the tears. ‘At Omdurman, we charged with our sabres gleaming in the sun against dervishes armed with spears. Now we fight with 15-inch Howitzers, Maxim machine guns, aeroplanes that drop death from the heavens and submarines that lurk in the deep ready to maim a 20,000-ton Dreadnought with a single torpedo. Fighting men have become no more than machine-minders for obscene instruments of death.’ He pauses, staring into the distance. ‘Where will it end – with yet more terrible ways of killing one another?!’

  For once, FE is silent, overwhelmed by his friend’s premonitions. Jack turns away, not knowing what to say. But his brother, suddenly composed, strides back towards the Admiralty. He has refound his resolution; there is a blaze in him once more, and he is murmuring to himself eagerly.

  ‘Depth bombs! I need that report commissioned by Jellicoe!’

  The two men, bemused, look at Winston as he walks away, muttering, ‘The answer to submarines: depth bombs, that’s what we need.’

  Both FE and Jack are relieved that Winston’s moments of despair have passed, rather than, as they often do, spiralling into a deeper melancholy. They know that he thinks of the British Navy as his kith and kin, as a vast family he adores. He has lost a lot of close relatives today. A fine welcome to his New Year!

  Saturday 9 January

  Towneley Hall, Burnley, Lancashire

  Towneley Hall is something of an anomaly, sitting as it does, in all its medieval splendour, almost in the middle of Burnley, surrounded by the grit and grime of the town’s innumerable cotton mills and its forest of belching chimneys. The hall has been home to the most eminent local family, the Towneleys, for over five hundred years. The family was celebrated for its military pedigree and staunch Roman Catholicism, but its wealth diminished significantly during the nineteenth century and the hall had to be sold, and has been owned by Burnley Borough Council since the turn of the century.

  Most of the house and its 400 acres are now open to the public. For the thousands who live in endless, monotonous rows of back-to-back terraced hovels only a stone’s throw away, Towneley’s opulent rooms, fine furnishings and immaculate gardens are a source of fascination, illustrating for them a perfect picture of how the gentry live. They gawp in wonder at its colourful tapestries, fine furniture and gleaming armour as they stride along its oak-panelled Long Gallery, and are awestruck by its enormous Elizabethan kitchen. Many of them have relatives who were in service to the Towneleys and who have told them about the lives made possible by privilege and wealth.

  As are people throughout Britain, the good folk of Burnley are in sombre mood. The short, dark days of a typical British winter create a half-light of gloomy shadows. Everything is drained of colour. The millstone grit of endless rows of identical houses and the cobbles, setts and flagstones of indistinguishable streets reflect through the constant drizzle, the leaden pall of smoke and low cloud from above. Everything appears to be either gull grey or shit brown.

  But Burnley’s hardy community is used to the melancholy of winter. It is the shadow of war that is having a far greater impact on people’s demeanour. The casualty figures have stunned everyone, as has the realization that the stalemate at the Front could last for months, even years. Even more disconcerting for many is knowing that Lord Kitchener’s new volunteer army is still in its early days of training and being equipped and that, when it is ready, it will be counted in millions, not thousands. It is not difficult to calculate the appalling arithmetic of what an army on that scale could mean in terms of future casualties.

  Mary Broxup and Cath Kenny are walking around Towneley’s impressive ornamental pond, admiring its soaring fountain. Their menfolk are at Turf Moor, where their volunteers’ blue uniforms will gain them admission at half-price. It is FA Cup day, the first round of the 1915 competition, and Burnley, current holders of the famous trophy, are at home to Huddersfield Town, a club only six years old and from the Football League’s Second Division. The game should be a formality for Burnley and, from the frequent roars the two women can hear from the ground, less than a mile away, that seems to be what is happening.

  ‘That sounds like another! I’ll wager our Tommy’s owd socks that t’bonny lad Bert Freeman’s scored it.’

  ‘That’s nowt much of a bet, Mary – Bert ollus scores! An’, besides, who’d want thi’ Tommy’s owd toe-rags?’

  After they giggle, Cath, suddenly serious, changes the subject. ‘Tha knows I wrote to Henry Hyndman?’

  ‘Aye, a’do.’

  ‘Well, ave ’ad a letter back fra’ ’im.’

  ‘’Ave yer now? Fancies thee, owd Henry.’

  ‘Does ’e ’eck? I thought ’e fancied thee.’

  ‘Don’t be a barmcake. ’E’s a good lad, a proper gent.’

  ‘That doesn’t stop ’im ’ankerin’ after thee. Any road, I wrote to ’im at Christmas when we ’eard abaht lads goin’ t’camp at Caernarvon. A told ’im, am not stoppin’ i’ Burnley if they’re buggerin’ off t’war.’

  ‘Still want t’drive ambulances?’

  ‘Aye, a’do, or summat to help t’lads at t’Front. Been thinkin’ on it e’er since a lost me little lad afore Christmas.’

  ‘So wot does Henry reckon?’

  ‘He sez th’s a crisis comin’. Not enough shells, guns, ammunition an’ everythin’; an’ not enough men t’mek ’em. He reckons women a’ll be needed in t’thousands to do war work, an’ that plans are already bein’ med. He thinks it’s goin’ to be reet important fer us lasses an’, harken t’this bit: he thinks we’ll get vote at t’end on it.’

  ‘Does he? That’s all very well, but wot abaht t’unions, they’ll not stand fer women doin’ men’s work.’

  ‘He sez they’ll ’ave t’; an’ that Lloyd George has done a deal wi’ ’em.’

  Mary is still sceptical. ‘But I don’t want t’work in a bloody factory; a can do that ’ere!’

  ‘Neither do I. I want to go t’France an’ do summat proper.’

  ‘ ’As t’talked to Mick abaht it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘An’?’

  ‘ ’E’s not moithered. ’E sez a can suit me’sen.’

  ‘So, wot next?’

  ‘If wi g
o t’London, Henry sez he’ll introduce us t’a Katherine Furse, a toff lass who runs summat called t’Voluntary Aid Detachment. He sez they’re all proper well-to-do ladies o’ leisure, women of means, who mek t’own way, buy t’own uniforms an’ stuff. But Henry wants ordinary lasses like us involved.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So we can be sen to be doin’ our bit as well.’

  ‘But if they’re all well off, how do’st wi manage? We’ve not got two ha’pennies t’rub together.’

  ‘Henry sez t’Socialist Party will sub us.’

  ‘Is that reet?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Enough to get us t’France, buy us uniforms an’ ten bob a week on top o’ t’twelve bob wi get fra’ Kitchener.’

  ‘That’s not a bad do! So how do wi get t’London?’

  ‘Henry will send us t’brass fer train ticket.’

  ‘Will ’e now? An’ wot does ’e want in return, a bit o’er brush?’

  ‘Mary, ’e’s not like that! Besides, ’e must be seventy-odd.’

  ‘Age doesn’t stop a lad gettin’ his knob out fer a bit o’ peggin’. Owd Bobby Leveret down our backstreet wer still wavin’ his little willie at any lass who walked by well into his eighties. They reckon that when they laid him out in t’funeral parlour, ’e still ’ad an ’ard-on!’

  ‘Don’t be daft, yer silly bugger. Anyway, Henry’s alreet. So, do’st want to do this drivin’ malarkey or wot?’

  Mary smiles. ‘If thee is, am wi’ thi, lass; but not until t’lads go t’Caernarvon.’

  ‘Reet, then wi’v got abaht a month t’learn ’ow to drive. Ad best show an ankle to that lad at Trafalgar Mill who sed ’e’d teach us ’ow t’drive ’is lorry.’

  ‘Aye, reckon tha’d better. But if a catch ’im sniffin’ at my ankle, I’ll lamp ’im.’

  Cath and Mary make their way to the Wellington Hotel, the nearest pub to Turf Moor, where they have agreed to meet the four men in their lives: their husbands, Mick and Tommy, and their two young friends and fellow volunteers, the inseparable Vinny and Twaites.

  In an acknowledgment of the hard times, Burnley Football Club has lowered its admission prices, but the stringencies of the Great War are severe and the crowd, a trifling 14,000, is significantly down compared to the previous season’s average. Nevertheless, as the two women walk up Todmorden Road towards their destination, they swim against a tide of men clattering their clog irons along the cobbles. Sporting their flat caps, cotton mufflers and heavy moustaches, they look identical.

  As they gave up wearing their Lancashire shawls long ago, Cath and Mary are conspicuous. On the whole, only ‘posh’ lasses and tarts walk the streets without a shawl, so they have to ignore the leers, whistles and obscene gestures of the waves of men washing past them. But they are keen to know the result. Cath’s voice is strong enough to be heard above the din.

  ‘ ’Ow did t’lads laik?’

  ‘Alreet lass’ is one friendly reply; a less pleasant one is ‘ ’Ow dost thee laik, lass, a’bet tha’s got a tidy game o’ cock-tuggin’ tha’sen!’

  Eventually, someone shouts the score: ‘Three–one: Bert Freeman, Bob Kelly an’ Len Thorpe. We’re off t’Crystal Palace agin. I ’ope owd King George ’as bin polishin’ t’trophy!’

  Cath smiles wryly. ‘So, Mary, tha wer’ reet abaht Bonny Bert, but tha’ can keep Tommy’s owd socks!’

  When Cath and Mary squeeze themselves through the throng at the Wellington Hotel they find that their uniformed quartet of men sitting at their usual table by the fireplace have almost finished their first pint of Massey’s.

  Twaites grabs one of the pot-lads to order more drinks, but his gesture represents only a momentary interruption in a heated debate about the game. Tommy is the most animated.

  ‘Sixpence fer that! That’s three pints o’ ale. Huddersfield laiked like amateurs. We shudda ’ad three brace o’ goals. Our Vinny wudda got t’hat-trick.’

  Vinny raises his jug in a salute. ‘I would tha’!’

  Ten minutes later, with the noise in the Wellington becoming deafening, Cath’s patience in waiting for a break in the conversation has been exhausted. She cuts in: ‘Mary an’ me are goin’ t’France t’drive ambulances.’

  She speaks without raising her voice. No one hears her. Mary repeats the information. ‘Aye, Cath an’ me are goin’ t’war. We’ll probably be theer a’fore thee buggers!’

  There is still no response from the men. Cath tries again to provoke a reaction: ‘Oh, an’ Mary’s runnin’ away wi’ a black chap!’

  Tommy smiles. ‘ ’E can ’ave ’er!’

  Mary responds with the flat of her hand, giving Tommy a firm clip around his ear which projects his cap on to the next table. There are cheers from all who see the blow.

  ‘Did thee ’ear wot a said abaht goin’ t’France?’

  ‘Aye; ave ’eard it afore.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Do as tha’ must; tha’ will any road.’

  Cath gives Mick a dig in the ribs. ‘An’ thee, yer big lummox. What do’st thee reckon?’

  ‘Suit tha’sen; like Mary, tha’ll do as tha’ pleases.’

  ‘Is that all tha’s got to say?’

  Tommy relents, and Mick smiles mischievously. ‘Sorry, our lass, wer only teasin’. Wot you’re doin’ is reet bold; not many lasses round ’ere would dream o’ doin’ it. We’re proud o’ both o’ thee.’

  Mary grins broadly. ‘Reet, then buy us both a bloody drink!’

  Walmer Castle, Kent

  Walmer Castle is one of Prime Minister Herbert Asquith’s favourite weekend retreats. The castle on the Kent coast just north of Dover, once a huge defensive fortress built by Henry VIII, is now a spacious home crammed with gilded portraits and memorabilia celebrating British history.

  Asquith’s host is William Lygon, 7th Earl Beauchamp, the new Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports. Walmer is the warden’s official residence. Beauchamp and his wife, Lettice, are excellent hosts. They have six young children, so, with the addition of the many children of their guests, Walmer at weekends is a lively and noisy place, its long corridors and many rooms ideal for games of hide and seek and other children’s amusements.

  Asquith is at Walmer with his wife, Margot, and youngest son, twelve-year-old Anthony, known to his family as Puffin. Other guests include the Home Secretary, Reginald McKenna, his wife, Pamela, and their two young boys, Michael and David. Margot, Asquith’s second wife, who much prefers London’s more ‘intellectual’ circles, loathes Walmer. She thinks it cold and draughty, and that too much politics is discussed there, at the cost of more ‘important’ conversation.

  The seating plan for dinner is a conundrum for the host and hostess. McKenna, a Cambridge mathematician by training and renowned for his meticulous attention to detail, has clashed several times with Winston in Cabinet. Winston thinks McKenna pedantic and unimaginative, while McKenna reciprocates with an overt repugnance for his younger colleague’s ‘dangerous belligerence’.

  To everyone’s relief, the two are kept apart at opposite ends of the table. Winston is seated next to Margot Asquith. After an hour or more of trivialities, Margot grasps Winston’s arm, smirks impishly and lowers her voice: ‘Winston, I hear on the bush telegraph that our host frequents various seedy West End premises for the sole purpose of cavorting with young men.’

  ‘Good heavens, madam, are you suggesting that Beauchamp is a homosexualist? Bloody hell, the man’s got six children!’

  ‘Piffle! That’s got nothing to do with it. Homosexuals are not infertile, and most have wives and families. Apparently, his moniker at Eton, ‘Little Willie’, was not a reference to his Christian name or the size of his male appendage but to his penchant for the little willies of the school fags.’

  ‘Really, Margot, you should take care. What you’re accusing him of is against the law of the land.’

  ‘Well, if you’ll forgive the pun, he’s made his bed … !’

  Ma
rgot, realizing that Winston is not titillated by her gossip about Willie Beauchamp, changes tack. She has heard that Winston has ambitions to be made Viceroy of India.

  ‘I hear you crave Charles Hardinge’s vice-regal cape when he retires?’

  ‘Hardly “crave”, Margot, but I did have a fancy for it a few years ago, especially after serving on the North-west Frontier in ’97, but not any more.’

  ‘Not enough elixir in India’s well to quench your warrior’s thirst?’

  ‘Well, there is no shortage of adventure for a fighting man on India’s borders, but it is as nothing compared to the contest here.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Most viceroys end up pickling themselves in gin and going gaga in the heat.’

  ‘Quite, Margot.’

  Winston leans towards Margot to share a confidence, knowing full well it will be in the Prime Minister’s ear before the morning: ‘It is the thrill of it here and now that intoxicates me. What we are doing in this great endeavour in Europe will be spoken of for a thousand generations. I could not be anywhere but at the heart of this glorious, delicious war!’

  Margot is taken aback by Winston’s bravado; just the effect he had hoped for.

  ‘Isn’t “delicious” an incongruous word for a war?’

  ‘Yes, but I think you know what I mean. Perhaps I should be more careful in my choice of words, but I was put on this earth to lead, and leaders must relish the fray.’

  Margot seems content with what she has wheedled out of Winston and purrs inwardly.

  Later that night, as they get ready for bed, Clemmie warns Winston about Margot: ‘You should be careful what you say to her. She keeps a diary and has an acerbic tongue. Also, you can’t be sure that her version of conversations gets back to Asquith with any accuracy.’

  ‘I know, but isn’t it perverse: Venetia Stanley keeps a diary as well? So poor Old Block is having his life recorded in every detail by his wife and his mistress! It’s very disconcerting in the War Council. He spends half his time scribbling notes to Venetia. I thought at first that he was keeping minutes, but Eddie Grey told me that he’s putting down his private thoughts and sometimes reporting every word we say. I’m sure they’re all going straight into her bloody diary.’