by John Masters
He’d need a Works foreman, and it would be a good idea to find his man before he started building, or altering an existing factory, as the case might be. Frank Stratton would be the perfect man for the job, but Frank was in the clutches of the army, who would certainly not let him go easily. He’d try, though – visit the depot and, on the strength of his family connections with the regiment, see the officer commanding and try to get Frank out.
Or Bert Gorse, perhaps, Willum’s half-brother? Behind his hostile attitude, Bert was a very capable man. He had the one quality that a foreman must have and the majority of workmen did not – the ability to think for himself. But could he be converted from his socialist ways? How would he do, working with American methods – production lines, time and motion studies, the rest?
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ the young chauffeur said from the back seat. ‘We should turn here, if we’re going home.’
Richard awoke from his daydream. ‘Thank you, Stafford.’
They were sitting in the drawing-room after dinner, Harry, Rose and Alice, Bismarck and Max in their baskets to one side of the fireplace, Freda’s basket empty. The french windows to the garden stood open, and Rose said, ‘It’s getting a little chilly, Alice. And we’ll be going to bed soon.’
Harry was reading, or pretending to, his daughter thought. He had been quiet and grim all day, since the interview with Richard. He had not liked doing what he did, but he felt he must. Alice wondered who was right. Perhaps, in the end, Richard would be grateful for what father had forced him to do – go out on his own.
She put down her book, The Old Wives’ Tale by Mr Arnold Bennett, went to the window and stepped on to the narrow terrace. ‘Freda!’ she called, ‘come here, you naughty dog!’ Rustlings in the laurels along the wall. ‘Freda!’
A small shadow detached itself from the bushes near the path round to the front door, and waddled towards her in the starlight. On the terrace the bitch sidled past her, hurried into the room, jumped into her basket and curled up with one eye open, pretending she had just been awakened from innocent sleep.
‘You’re a bad dog,’ Alice snapped, pointing. ‘Bad dog! Why do you wander so?’ She closed and bolted the french windows, sat down, and picked up her book. Mr Bennett was rather a gloomy writer, at times; but one must persevere. She began to read again.
Bismarck leaped out of his basket and simultaneously there was a crash somewhere in the passage. Harry put down his book. Rose was on her feet, her hand to her heart. ‘What’s that?’ she cried.
Alice caught her mother’s eye. The same thought was in both their minds – the Irishman in the QT room, upstairs. They hurried to the door and out into the lower hall. Men’s voices were raised at the front. ‘This is the house. Up the stairs! You, Jones, don’t let anyone out.’
Alice switched on the hall electric light. The front door was open and three policemen were in the house, one portly older fellow at the door, two pounding towards the stairs. Parrish the butler appeared from below, crying, ‘Here, here, what do you think you’re …?’
‘You be quiet,’ the police sergeant said. “Oo’s ’ouse is this?”
‘Mr Harry Rowland’s,’ Parrish said. ‘And there he is, wanting to know what you burst in ’ere for, I daresay.’
Harry went forward, ‘What’s the matter, sergeant? I don’t understand … Why didn’t you knock at the door, or ring the bell?’
Rose stared at the sergeant, her heart pounding. They had no right to come in without a search warrant. She should demand to see it; and obviously they didn’t have one. Then they’d have to leave, and before they came back she could get the Irishman out of the house … perhaps. For they would leave someone on watch in the street. If they were indeed after the Irishman. She had better wait …
The sergeant had not realized that this was the house of Mr Harry Rowland, of the Rowland Motor Car Company. His tone altered. ‘Sorry, I’m sure, sir. But we ’ad a report about something suspicious going on ’ere. Lights in an upper window, flashing on and off.’
Rose kept her face still – but what were they talking about? The Irishman wouldn’t be such a fool as even to use the light in the QT room surely, let alone flash it on and off? But they were getting dangerously close. She could not afford to wait any longer. She stiffened herself, ready to speak. Alice took her elbow and held it tight, whispering, ‘Wait.’
The sergeant said, ‘Come ’ere, you.’ A fourth man sidled forward. He was a little fellow in a celluloid collar and black four-in-hand tie. ‘This man saw lights flashing from upstairs. He pointed it out. There was a light, going on and off like, he says.’
‘Right at the top?’ Rose said.
‘Yes’m. That’s what you said, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
Harry said, ‘Well, let’s go upstairs and find out. Though I can assure you there are no spies in this house, and very likely none closer than Chatham.’ He led the way up the stairs, followed by everyone else, except the portly constable guarding the front door.
As they passed the first floor landing Rose suppressed a surge of relief. If they didn’t find what they were looking for higher up, they would want to search this floor, too, perhaps the whole house: but for the moment the matter looked less dangerous.
On the second floor landing a green baize door barred the entrance to the servants’ rooms, to the left; to the right, a short corridor was flanked by a storeroom on one side and another guest room on the other.
The little man said, ‘I think it was this way, sergeant.’ He pointed at the baize door.
Harry said, ‘Who’s in, Parrish?’
The butler said, ‘Martha and Carrie went out together; they are to be back by eleven, sir. Judith’s visiting her aunt in Ashford, and won’t be back till the last train. Mrs Stallings is still in the kitchen, making a pâté, she said. Laura’s in her room, or should be.’
Harry said, ‘Laura’s the kitchen maid, sergeant. Which is her room, Parrish?’
‘This one,’ Rose said. ‘One moment, sergeant. Step back a little, please.’ She knocked on the door and a young woman’s voice said, “Oo’s there? I’m busy.’
‘Mrs Rowland,’ Rose said, ‘and several men. Are you properly dressed?’
‘Oh yes, m’m,’ the voice answered. The door was opened from inside and Laura the kitchen maid stood in the doorway blinking in astonishment at the crowded corridor. ‘Why, madam … sir … what’s the matter?’
Rose walked into the room, saying, ‘Excuse me, Laura.’ She looked at the window, and saw material hanging from the curtain rod, and more of the same on the bed. She said, ‘Have you been making curtains, Laura?’
‘Yes’m. I ’ope it’s all right. I mean it was my money, and …’
‘Perfectly all right, Laura. You had sewn the curtains today, perhaps, and now you were trying to hang them up?’
‘Yes’m. I’d get them up, and then the wind would blow them a little open, and I’d try to take them down ’cos I thought perhaps they ought to be ’eavier. And twice I fell off the chair. It’s a bit rickety, m’m.’
Harry said, ‘There’s your spy signalling with lights – to the Germans, sergeant … Laura hanging up curtains!’
Alice, standing at the back of the others, felt an intense desire to laugh. The change from imminent danger to farce was too much. She tried to stifle it but after a few moments of vain struggling she exploded in a tremendous guffaw. She bent her head and turned the laugh into a cough.
Her father said, ‘Are you all right, Alice?’
She nodded, red in the face. Bismarck barked twice and started back along the passage, to wait by the baize door.
The sergeant said, ‘I ’ope we didn’t inconvenience you, sir. We didn’t ’ave time to get a warrant, and if it ’ad been a spy, and it might ’ave been … then we’d all ’ave been in trouble, wouldn’t we, sir?’
‘Don’t you worry, sergeant. I won’t report it. We all have our duty to do.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you, ma’am. Come on now, you two. Good night, sir, good night, ma’am, good night, miss.’
When they had all gone, and Parrish had closed and this time locked the front door behind them, and the Rowlands had returned to the drawing-room, Harry said, ‘Searching for spies! In Hedlington! Who’d have believed it possible?’
‘And entering without a warrant,’ Rose said.
‘It’s the war, my dear,’ Harry said. ‘It’s only been going on nine days and already people are acting strangely. Even Alice, laughing then. It wasn’t really a laughing matter.’
Alice said, ‘I suppose not, father, but if we don’t keep a sense of humour, this war’s going to be impossible to bear, before very long.’
Daily Telegraph, Thursday, August 13, 1914
… by piecing together all available information some idea can now be formed of the military situation. Naturally one cannot disclose what one may know or deduce concerning the whereabouts and movements of – (excision by censor) – but the proceedings of the enemy are to some extent, at any rate, known. A group of German army corps are probably assembled in and around the fortress area of Metz … Another group of perhaps rather greater strength stretches across Belgian Luxemburg and Namur province. Its right flank rests on the Meuse in the neighbourhood of Huy. Three army corps, of about six divisions, with a powerful corps of cavalry, have established themselves on the left bank. This army threatens to attack Brussels, or, alternatively, to invade France in the direction of Mons.
A division in each of the contending armies numbers twelve battalions, each of a thousand infantry. It has also 2500 artillerymen, with detachments of cavalry and the auxiliary services, including a total personnel of about 17,000 men.
Christopher Cate got up and looked at the war map hung in front of one of the bookcases. In the stationers they sold little coloured flags on pins you could stick into these maps, and so pretend that you were an expert on the General Staff. All that he himself could see was there must soon be a clash on the French-German border. In another part of the paper it had been stated that the Germans had comparatively few troops on the Russian front, and obviously planned to deal France a knockout blow before turning to deal with the Russians. Quentin had once explained to him that what happened before opposing forces met was called strategy, and was the affair of generals and staffs; what happened afterwards was called tactics, and was the affair of subalterns and soldiers. The time of strategy must be nearly over, and the decisions soon to be left in the hands of the fighting men.
The other news in the Telegraph was just as important, though not as exciting. The Bank of England was prepared to discount, at the request of holders, all approved bills of exchange accepted before August 4th … the great Cunard liner Lusitania had arrived safely from New York, though it was believed that a German-armed merchant cruiser had been lying in wait for her in the Atlantic … the King had offered Balmoral Castle as a hospital for wounded sailors and soldiers should the need arise … the Admiralty was reassuring neutrals that it was quite safe to send their cargoes to Britain over every ocean and sea … except the North Sea, where the Germans were scattering mines indiscriminately … Field-Marshal Sir John French had had an audience of the King …
But Sir John was the Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force, so he was obviously saying goodbye before going over to France. Quentin might be there already, but probably not just yet. There were still a few days left, a week or two at the most, before the paper would be printing accounts of battles actually fought rather than speculations on battles that might be fought; and listing the names of those killed and wounded, not in some remote tribal skirmish, but on England’s doorstep.
10 London: Sunday, August 23, 1914
The train burst out of the Swanley tunnel into ardent light and Harry Rowland again raised his newspaper. It was an hour and a half’s journey from Hedlington to Victoria on the South Eastern, which gave him good time to digest most of the news out of the Observer before the rumbling of the carriage on Battersea Bridge warned him that they’d be in Victoria in four minutes.
He found he could not concentrate, and soon lowered the paper. The first-class compartment was empty except for himself. It was a slack time of day, on Sundays. If travellers were going to London, they’d have gone earlier; if they were returning from the country, they’d come later … Ellis had given him no inkling of what he wanted of him. A Member of Parliament became both more and less important in wartime. The fate of the country obviously depended, in the last analysis, on every MP’s wisdom and courage; but the day-to-day running of the war was being done by Lord Kitchener, Prince Louis and presumably Asquith, the Prime Minister, Lloyd George, Churchill, and one or two others. Prince Louis of Battenberg … he had heard some gossip about him, and dismissed it from his mind. Something about him being not to be trusted, because he was a German by birth. He might get Richard to ask old Commander Quigley what he thought; but he had not seen his eldest son since the day of the unpleasant interview. He sighed, wondering – was I right, or wrong, really? How could anyone know, for sure? He had simply felt that with Germany at his country’s throat, it would be wrong to change the management of an important firm. Richard should not have taken it so personally. He should have considered only what was best for England, not for himself … but he was comparatively young still, and the young had their dreams and visions. He tried to remember what it was like being in his forties, what was the difference then from now. After a time he gave up, and looked out of the window, unseeing.
The train puffed on through the late summer, past Ravensbourne and Bellingham, Nunhead and Peckham Rye, into the city now, Brixton, Clapham, Wandsworth Road … many other lines below, then the familiar deep rumble, the Thames swirling past, an ebb tide carrying the brown water fast to the sea, a tug struggling against it towing two barges. When he was young, and coming to town on this line on business, he used to stand up here and start collecting his papers, hat, and umbrella from the rack. Now he remained seated until the train came to a full stop. It was not so easy to keep your balance in the case of a sharp stop as it used to be; and the consequences of a fall could be a great deal more serious.
The train glided to a halt, and he stood up. A few minutes later he was in a taxicab moving fast up the almost deserted reaches of the Buckingham Palace Road. At five minutes to eleven he walked slowly up the nine steps to the portico of the Reform Club and turned to the porter’s desk. He had been in here many times in his life but, although he was a Liberal by political persuasion, and this was the Liberal club, he was not now a member. His father had entered him for it and he had in fact been a member until the Royal Automobile Club was founded a little further along Pall Mall when he had, naturally, joined that.
The head porter remembered him still, though, and touched his cap as Harry approached. ‘Morning, Mr Rowland. Nice morning.’
‘Too hot for my liking, Chessman,’ Harry said. ‘We need more rain, now that most of the harvest’s in … I have an appointment with Mr Ralph Ellis.’
‘Certainly, sir. He said to tell you he’d be in the Morning Room. This way, sir.’
‘Don’t bother to come with me, Chessman. Good heavens, my memory’s not that bad.’
‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Harry went up a few more steps, turned right along the panelled wall of the great Saloon, gazed idly at the ornate oil portrait of a defunct Marquess of Westminster, and entered the Morning Room. A few members were inside, talking, one with what looked like a tall glass of brandy at his elbow. A bit early for that, Harry thought. Ellis was sitting in a leather armchair the far side of the room, facing the door, newspaper across his ample belly, pipe in hand. He saw Harry and started ponderously to his feet, shedding the newspaper on to the carpet and scattering tobacco ash down the front of his worsted suit. His grey walrus moustache was yellow-stained, and when he stood upright his pot belly was even more pronounced than when the spread newsp
aper partly hid it. He was seventy-five years of age.
‘Rowland, glad to see you, my dear fellow,’ he boomed, thrusting out his hand. ‘Sit down, sit down. What about a glass of sherry?’
‘Well …’ Harry thought, I ought to be stronger minded, but …
‘Oh, come on. It’s past eleven o’clock, and I’ve just been waiting for you to come to have one myself.’ He struck the bell on the table beside him and a club waiter glided up. ‘Two sherries, George. Amontillado do you, Rowland?’
‘Certainly.’
‘All right. How have you been keeping? And Mrs Rowland? Good, good. What’s Richard up to?’
Harry waited till the sherry was served, then said, ‘He is trying to start a new business – manufacturing lorries.’
‘In Hedlington, I heard.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll be good for the town. More men at work, more money in circulation.’ He shot a keen glance at Harry, and Harry thought, he’s going to ask why Richard left Rowland’s; but Ellis said, ‘John still farming? Miss Alice well? And Tom at sea, I suppose.’
‘In HMS Monmouth, an armoured cruiser.’
‘And Quentin in France, eh? The PM told me yesterday that Kitchener thinks the BEF will meet the Huns today or tomorrow at the latest. Then we’ll show them something, eh?’
‘I certainly hope so.’
Ellis continued, ‘The French are having very heavy casualties I hear. Very heavy indeed. And they’re not advancing … Here’s to your good health, Rowland … and all your family … especially Tom and Quentin.’ He drank half the glass and put it down. He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand, and picked the newspaper off the floor, puffing heavily. He folded the paper and put it on the side-table, while Harry waited. At last – ‘You’re a good Liberal, Rowland, aren’t you? Always have been, eh?’
‘Yes. My father was, and I have seen no reason to change my allegiance, though mind you, I didn’t agree with some of the party’s attitudes during the war … I mean the war in South Africa.’