There are almost thirty young women in the room: bright eyed, well scrubbed, if a little apprehensive. Most are well-to-do, wives or daughters of landowners, the nobility or rich businessmen; some are the offspring of barristers, doctors or civil servants; and four of them, Cath and Mary and two girls from Bermondsey whose fathers are dockers, are distinctly working-class.
It is relatively easy to tell them apart. Breeding is not visible but money is. Clothes, hair, make-up, shoes and complexion give the game away. The four ‘ordinary’ lasses sit next to one another, like four peas in a not very comfortable pod.
‘This is a very proud moment for Lady Stewart-Murray and myself and, of course, for the Voluntary Aid Detachment. You ladies are the eighth group we have sent off to duties in support of our brave men since the beginning of April. Our numbers are growing all the time, as is the acceptance that we are of value, which wasn’t always the case.
‘Now, some of you have done some nursing training or first aid. You will be assigned to various hospital duties by Sister Smythson here, who is from the Red Cross. She will also issue you with standard Red Cross nurse’s uniforms. You will be addressed as “Nurse” and be treated, hopefully even by the army, as having the rank of an NCO.
‘Others among you are qualified drivers or have volunteered for kitchen or catering work. You will be assigned by Miss Shuttleworth, who is from the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, or FANY.’
There are a few titters from the ranks of women and Cath laughs out loud.
‘Yes, I know, but you’ll get used to it, and a lot worse. Miss Shuttleworth will issue you your uniforms: standard khaki culottes. Why, you may ask? Well, because it was originally intended that we would collect the injured on horseback! But times have changed. You will have a standard tunic and belt, not unlike an army officer’s jacket, and our own distinctive baggy caps – very smart. You will also be given a greatcoat, which have been very useful, but hopefully will not now be needed for a while. You, too, will be designated as “Nurse” – it is easier for the men to come to terms with – and as NCOs, which is perhaps not as easy for them to accept, but we live in hope.’
Furse moves a little uneasily before continuing. ‘Now, ladies, a few issues of some delicacy, but we’re all adults here. Some of you are married, some are not, but all of you have chosen to enter a brutal, threatening and dangerous world. Men are dying in droves in the most awful of circumstances. You will be at risk yourselves and will see things that you will wish to forget. Steel yourselves for things that you will find hard to bear. Also, as a woman, you will be a rare sight for men a long way from their own womenfolk. You don’t need me to tell you what circumstances will arise as a consequence. Those are also things you will have to deal with. As for your own behaviour, to those of you who are unencumbered, I would say just two things. First of all, we like to think of ourselves as living by the same military code as our menfolk, so we adopt the same “fraternization” rules as they do. Secondly, I would say be vigilant about your own behaviour. Set an example that will make everyone in the Red Cross, FANY and the VAD proud.’
She shuffles involuntarily in her seat once more.
‘I would add one thing. Venereal disease is a significant problem not only in the ranks but also among the officers, even senior ones. How can I put this? … They are a long way from home; respectable French ladies have long gone to Paris and elsewhere. The women who are left are professionals; they carry every conceivable disease. The French military are realists in the matter and our HQ has taken, let’s say, a passive position. So prostitution is rife, and you must know the risks if a man approaches you and … perhaps I can put it this way, begs that you help him in his hour of need.’
There are one or two sniggers around the room, while Cath, unable to resist, mutters audibly, ‘Bugger their hour of need, what about ours!’
There are several ‘tut-tuts’ but also a few wry smiles from the women. Furse chooses to ignore the comment.
‘Finally, if at any time you have a problem or want to talk to anyone, you must come back here to St Omer to Sister Smythson or Miss Shuttleworth, or, if we’re here, to me or Lady Stewart-Murray directly. Any questions?’
Cath, unable to resist the temptation to be provocative, jumps to her feet. ‘Hello, Katherine, it’s Cath Kenny, fra Burnley. We met i’ London at St John’s Gate.’
There are some intakes of breath from the women in the room at Cath’s strong Lancashire accent and because the convention is to refer to their leader as Mrs Furse rather than Katherine.
‘I remember very well, Mrs Kenny. How are you?’
‘Am alreet … Now, about this “fraternization” malarkey. When tha ses “rules” an’ reckon we ’ave t’status of NCOs, do’st mean wi can only fraternize wi’ NCOs, but not t’ordinary lads and certainly not t’officers?’
‘Well, Mrs Kenny, I’ll leave that to your better judgement.’
Furse thinks she has given a good answer, but Cath stays on her feet, despite having her skirt pulled by Mary. Furse’s brow furrows. ‘Did you have another question, Mrs Kenny?’
‘Aye, well, not a question, more a comment. An’ please call me Cath; Mrs Kenny makes mi sound like a keep a boardin’ ’ouse. A just wanted to say that if we’re all out ’ere wi’ bullets flyin’ an’ all that, then I reckon a’ll fraternize wi’ whoever teks me fancy.’
Furse smiles through gritted teeth and does not rise to the provocation but stands to leave the room. ‘Thank you, ladies,’ she says. ‘Bon chance in wherever you go and whatever you do.’
Mary looks mystified. ‘What the buggery does that mean, our Cath?’
‘It’s French. It means “good luck”.’
‘How do yer know?’
‘Burnley Central Library, Mary. Ave bin learnin’ some French. It’s ’ard, though, as me English is not t’best.’
‘ ’Eck, Cath, I reckon you’re gonna get me in a lot o’ trouble sooner or later! Come on, let’s go an’ see that Shuttleworth lass t’find out what we’re lettin’ us’sens in fer.’
As Cath and Mary collect their uniforms and the details of their assignment, Katherine Furse and Kitty enjoy a cup of tea in Furse’s office.
‘Good God, Kitty. I think we made a mistake with that Kenny woman. She’s dangerous – a communist for sure – and, I suspect, she has the morals of a guttersnipe.’
Kitty, conscious of her own illicit relationship with her Grenadier Guards lover, tempers her words. ‘She’s quite a character, I’ll grant you that. Not sure why, but given that she has no education, absolutely no breeding and talks in that comical dialect, I admire her devilment. I agree she’s dangerous, but there’s something about her; she’s shrewd and courageous. Something tells me we may not have seen the last of her.’
‘You surprise me, Kitty. Sometimes you sound like a crusty old duchess but at other times you could be a Pankhurst! Anyway, I told Shuttleworth to put Kenny and Broxup on the Poperinghe-to-Ypres run and to keep a very close eye on them. That will soon tell us what they’re made of.’
Friday 21 May
The Houses of Parliament, London
Winston told Clemmie that the War Council gathering on Friday 21 May would be ‘sulphurous’, but events have moved so quickly during the week that it has been cancelled. The Conservatives, inspired by a desperate Sir John French, have been feeding Fleet Street the information about the shortage of shells, which has led to a growing storm around Asquith’s government. The party whips have read the runes in Parliament, both in the Lords and the Commons, and the political cards have been dealt. Now the hands are being played out.
Realizing what is about to happen, and knowing that he stands to benefit from the turmoil, Lloyd George has withdrawn his support for Winston. Jacky Fisher, whose recent behaviour has bordered on insanity, has left his superior exposed in a most brutal way. He has resigned, this time with proper intent, and gone to ground in London. Not even a direct order from Asquith written in his own hand in the name of
the King can persuade him to return. Not only that, Fisher has told Bonar Law that he has resigned, giving the Conservatives the final card they need to bring down Asquith’s government.
Asquith, not as swashbuckling as Lloyd George but equally pragmatic, is doing what he does best: preserving his status and political future. His own mood is as black as thunder. He has heard that his epistolary obsession, Venetia Stanley, has decided to accept a marriage proposal from Edwin Samuel Montagu, a liberal MP. Even though he is crestfallen, he still knows how to survive in public life, no matter what the cost.
On the evening of the 21st there is, at least on the surface, an impromptu gathering in Asquith’s offices in the House of Commons. All the senior figures are there for what soon becomes an unofficial council of war. Men are seated haphazardly around the room. Almost immediately Alfred Bonar Law, sitting in a window seat and appearing to watch the Thames flow under Westminster Bridge, turns and confronts Winston, who is seated close by.
‘Would the First Lord of the Admiralty like to explain the position taken by his First Sea Lord, who seems now to be saying that the whole Dardanelles operation is a fiasco and was doomed to failure from the outset? Not only that, would Mr Churchill confirm that he sanctioned that cavalier adventure against the advice of his admirals?’
Bonar Law’s short, blunt question, regardless of the fact that it is based on a false premise and an untruth, is a fatal blow delivered before the bell to begin the fight has been rung. Winston is incandescent, but to reveal his rage will only give yet more satisfaction to those who are gathered to see him suffer. He takes a deep breath. He suspects the meeting may have been deliberately arranged so that his coup de grâce can be inflicted publicly. As this is not supposed to be a formal meeting, he looks to Asquith inquiringly. Is he required to respond? The Prime Minister nods, indicating that he is, and hinting even more strongly that a deal has already been struck. Winston decides to go down fighting.
‘Prime Minister, I beseech you and my esteemed colleagues gathered here to consider the broader canvas we have laid out before us, a canvas that does not show a picture of political intrigue and the machinations of power but one that depicts the reality that our soldiers and sailors face at this very moment.’
Former naval intelligence officer Colonel Maurice Hankey is in the room. He has begun to take minutes of War Council gatherings, so, instinctively, he raises his pencil. He has heard Winston in this mood before and knows that the oratory will be compelling and the argument overwhelmingly sound. But he also knows that it will not alter the course of events. Winston’s Ides of May will not be forestalled. He puts his pencil back in his pocket.
Five minutes later Winston is still in full flow. Brutus, Cassius and the other assassins look down, shame-faced.
‘So, Prime Minister, never have our Hearts of Oak been stronger. We have the Kaiser’s Grand Fleet cooped up in its riverbank burrows like water rats that have had their tails bitten off. I have no doubts that our cause, no matter where it is being pressed, will triumph.’ Winston gets to his feet. He is close to tears, but resists them. ‘But we will have victory all the sooner if we here show the same resolve as our brave warriors – the young men of Britain and our empire, at Aubers Ridge only last week and on the inimical beaches and desolate scrubland of Gallipoli at this very moment – and fight as a team without jealousy or rancour. I welcome this government of all our people – of political friends and foes – but it will not work if you conduct it in the same scurrilous way which led to its creation.’
He pauses and looks in turn at Asquith, Kitchener and Lloyd George. They all avoid his stare. Only the Conservatives look at him, and not with expressions of warmth.
‘God help our men in their hour of need. Be their faithful companion to victory and their guardian for a safe return to home shores.’
There is a long silence. Hankey decides to write a short memo to himself but thinks it diplomatic to précis the exchange with the banal entry ‘Mr Bonar Law asked Mr Churchill to summarize the situation in the Dardanelles. Mr Churchill responded by describing in some detail the current position and its prospects for success.’
Winston walks from the room, upright and dignified. There is still not a sound behind him. As he strides down the long halls of the Palace of Westminster, through the Queen’s Gallery, with its enormous paintings of the battles of Waterloo and Trafalgar, he is certain that he will never again walk the corridors of power in earnest. He has always felt that, like his ancestor John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough, his deeds would one day adorn the walls of the Mother of Parliaments. Now he is certain that his dream is over.
That evening Clemmie writes to Asquith, pleading her husband’s cause, suggesting that losing his services could grant victory to the Kaiser. In one of his last letters to Venetia Stanley, Asquith, in an astonishingly cruel comment, describes Clemmie’s missive as the ‘letter of a lunatic’. Winston also tries to salvage the situation by writing to Asquith, begging him to let him carry on: ‘Let me stand or fall by the Dardanelles – do not take it from my hands.’ He adds a postscript: ‘I have not come to see you, though I should like to; but it would be kind of you to send for me.’
The Prime Minister does not send for him but writes a terse note telling him that the matter is settled. Winston, desperate and humiliated, writes again the next morning: ‘I will accept any office – the lowest, if you like – that you care to offer me, and I will continue to serve in this time of war until the affairs in which I am deeply concerned are settled.’
The only solution to Asquith’s dilemma is to make a deal with the Conservatives to form a national government. But Winston must pay the price and leave the Admiralty, which will be given to Arthur Balfour. Lloyd George will be made responsible for a new Ministry of Munitions, which will directly address the shell crisis. Winston is offered, and accepts, the role of Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, an ornamental position of little power, but he is allowed to continue to attend the War Council.
The next day, heartbroken and fully in the grip of one of his bouts of severe depression, his ‘black dogs’, as he calls them, he, Clemmie and their children move into his brother’s home at 41 Cromwell Road, a busy street opposite the Natural History Museum in Kensington. Jack’s service in the Dardanelles means that Lady Gwendoline and their two young sons, John and Peregrine, the ‘Jagoons’, as Winston has christened them, are only too happy to have their company.
The same evening, Winston, Clemmie and Goonie – the family’s pet name for Lady Gwendoline – relax after supper. Both women are concerned about Winston’s state of mind. In an attempt to bring him some cheer, Goonie reads J. L. Garvin’s editorial from the Observer Sunday newspaper published that morning: ‘He is young. He has lion-hearted courage. No number of enemies can fight down his ability and force. His hour of triumph will come.’
Winston interrupts. ‘James is a fine fellow. He hails from Birkenhead, like FE. You know, there must be something very wholesome in the water supply there. Although he doesn’t have FE’s wit, he does have a remarkable intellect and is a prodigious journalist. The son of an Irish labourer who died when the boy was two, he is an inspiration to us all.’
For a moment, warmed by his reflections, it seems as if Winston’s mood has lifted, but he turns away to stare out on to Cromwell Road. ‘He has always been kind to me. But not even James’s fine endorsement gives me any comfort at the moment. The truth is I’m finished, Goonie. Clemmie knows it, and I know it. I’m finished in respect of all I care for – the waging of war and the defeat of the Germans. That is what I live for.’
‘Oh, Winston, that cannot be true. You’re so young.’
Clemmie begins to cry, and Goonie goes to comfort her. Winston, whose eyes are also teary and reddened, gets to his feet, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘I think I’ll stroll up to Hyde Park for some air. It’s a lovely evening.’
Clemmie rushes to hug her husband. ‘Winston, it’s not a fine evening; it look
s like rain! Do you have to go?’
‘Darling Cat, I would like to, if you don’t mind. I’ll go via the Albert Hall and the Memorial. They are inspirational, and I need a little of that at the moment.’
They hug one another; both have tears running down their cheeks. Clemmie takes some deep breaths and gathers herself. ‘If you must,’ she says, ‘but please be careful, it’s quite late.’
As Winston leaves, Goonie takes hold of Clemmie, who is at the point of collapse. ‘Goonie,’ says her sister-in-law, ‘I can’t bear it. I think he might die of grief!’
Winston composes himself and crosses Cromwell Road. It is very busy as people begin to move westwards to their homes after spending Sunday evening in town. As he reaches the pavement on the opposite side of the road, he is startled by a large figure moving towards him, his face obscured by a dark shadow cast across his face by a homburg hat.
‘Good evening, sir. Would you like me to walk with you for a while?’
‘Good heavens, Serjeant Gough, how nice to see you. Now that I’m going to the Duchy, I thought I would lose the pleasure of your company.’
‘You will, sir, tomorrow, but this is the weekend. My wife is out at her mother’s tonight, so I thought I’d pop round to make sure all is well.’
‘Well, that is very thoughtful of you. I’m going to walk up to Hyde Park, and to have you stroll with me would be much appreciated.’
Winston puts his cigar in his mouth and, with his cane striking out his steps, marches up Exhibition Road, with Serjeant John Gough, his Special Branch security man, trying to keep pace.
‘Serjeant, did I ever tell you about the time I escaped from the Boers in South Africa?’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 23