“What of airships, Tommy? There have been Zeppelin raids already, you know, and there will be more.”
“Big, slow, cumbersome, and very expensive, sir. I do not know just how much they cost to build, but they cannot be cheap. A powerful engine in a pursuit plane, one that can climb to twenty thousand feet and carry a heavy machine-gun, and you can forget about the Zeppelin. Aerial bombardment may kill a few civilians – and that will be a shameful thing – but it is not accurate and will have very little effect upon the war. We should not waste money and materials on dirigibles, sir. I am told that the RNAS has blimps and that they are to go submarine chasing over the North Sea. That makes sense, certainly.”
“What of your bombing machines, Tommy? Brigadier Sykes tells me you have been busy with them.”
Tommy laughed, shook his head.
“If three raids can be called busy, then so I have been. Very successful raids, though I say it myself, for being low-level and against unsuspecting targets. There will be no more surprise, sir, and no more low-level work. I do not know that we can aim straight from any height. No doubt we will find out over the next few months.”
“You are to go as second-in-command of a bombardment squadron, or so I understand, Tommy.”
“News to me, sir, though I had heard word of a probable move. Second-in-command sounds very good, of course. If I had it in mind to build a career in the RFC, then it would be very useful.”
Conversation turned to England and how the war was affecting ordinary people.
“Deaths in France, which can only rise, and food prices which are doing the same, Tommy. But wages are going up, too. In some industries, the weekly pay packet is far outstripping the rise in prices. But on the land, for example, wages are not rising at all. Farm labourers are still going into the army, and willingly, but the number of factory workers volunteering is falling, in part because of those wages. The call for soldiers is higher than ever and there is discussion of conscription, which is a source of some division in the Houses, and not solely on lines of party. Some young women are now being employed in factories, or as drivers, and many are being taken on in farming. I am told that there is a shortage of domestic servants growing where there are jobs available in the factories; they can earn four and five times as much, and work shorter hours!”
Lady Moncur thought that it was shocking and should not be permitted; how could decent people live without the necessary servants?
Monkey said nothing, wondering if, apart from the Wilton carpet factory, there were any big factories near Wilton, and hoping there were not. If she ever had to live without servants, then she would be at a loss for how to go on, for she did not know what to do; she could not keep a house clean and cook the family’s food – she had never learned how. As for washing and ironing clothes, and such things, she knew that it was done, but that was the extent of her understanding. Considered from a purely practical viewpoint, in fact, she did not know very much at all. It did, however, sound as if factories were to be found only in a few parts of the country, that they existed in the great towns, but not in the countryside; such being the case, they must take care never to live too close to a town.
“Practical matters, Tommy,” she heard her father say, coming out of her own thoughts to pay attention to the conversation.
“Yes, sir?”
“I made George an allowance, of course, so that he had an independence if he needed it. He spent very little of it, in fact, having no wish to play the dapper dog in London. I doubt he was two weeks a year away from Long Benchley – he was wholly and solely a countryman. The effect is to release that money. Lavinia has no use for it – her husband’s overwhelming virtue is that he is very well off - so I intend to add it to the sum I have arranged to make available to Grace. George also had his own car, much smaller than your Lanchester, and that is hers too. It makes no difference to my costs, Tommy – this is literally spare money that needs a home for itself.”
Tommy was inclined to be overpowered by his father-in-law’s generosity, but raised no demur; he could perceive that the motivation was fear that Monkey would be left a young widow, a breed that was already growing in England.
“You are very good to us, sir. Thank you.”
“Not at all, my boy! All in the family!”
That response led Tommy to realise that Lord Moncur hardly regarded his eldest daughter as part of the family any more – she had married to an extent against his wishes, to a man he could not value.
“The family is to expand within a few months, sir. Is Mrs Monkton well?”
“She is, Tommy, and so is her plump husband! It is difficult indeed to discover which is expanding the more rapidly!”
An indelicate comment; the laughter that greeted it bore faint tinges of shock from the females.
“Well, sir, we did say that he should become a Minister for Agriculture!”
“Ideally, in fact amply, fitted for the role, Tommy.”
They did not discuss Tommy’s half-brother – that would, it seemed, have been an even more indelicate matter.
The family evening ended early – it had been a tiring day.
“Do you want to spend a few days at Wilton, Tommy?”
Monkey stretched, happily tired, almost asleep, tucking into his shoulder.
“Perhaps not, love. Your father must spend his days in London again, and no doubt will not be back every night, and your mother must want your company for a week or two yet.”
She nodded, yawning, and fell asleep.
“Happy anniversary, Tommy! We have been married for three months!”
“Happy birthday, Monkey – you are an old lady of seventeen now!”
“I am too! I had forgotten my birthday! With all of the worry about poor George, I had lost sight of that.”
“A trip into Winchester today, Monkey. We can look about the shops for something.”
They drove out, wrapped up against the February cold. The weather was still deep winter, showed not the least inkling of spring to come, heavy cloud coming in on an easterly wind suggesting a possibility of snowfall later in the day. They saw training planes twice, Farmans pottering along at a thousand feet, bumping in the thermals produced by sun on the existing snow cover.
“They should take them higher, for safety’s sake, Monkey. Bad conditions for low flying. This wind is going to rise, and could come in a sudden gust.”
“Should they not stay on the ground then?”
“No. Too many pilots needed, and too little time to train them. They have to take advantage of every opportunity to fly in winter. Besides that, they will fly in worse conditions in France; they must not come out with the idea that flying is a fair-weather game.”
“Is it a game at all, Tommy?”
“So they say. It’s a job of work to me, but the boys who come out fresh have never known work at all, and do not ever expect to. War is sport to them, and they will tell me, in all seriousness, that it is sportsmen who will gain the day for Old England. The RFC owns the skies over France, at the moment, and that is because they are jolly good chaps who know how to play the game, so they say. It is nothing to do with the Germans having produced the wrong sort of machines in their Taubes, of course. When the Germans come up with a better plane of some sort they will discover that being jolly good at rugger and cricket won’t do them any good at all – but they won’t survive long enough to notice, I expect.”
“What about you, Tommy?”
“Old-timers do not die so easily, Monkey. In part, of course, we are old-timers because we haven’t died! I am not going to say that I am too good, too experienced to be caught out, but I am less likely to go down than any of the new boys coming out. As well, and importantly, I suspect, I am not a BE2 driver – I am a pilot on a plane that is far less easy to catch. A good machine for observation, the BE2c, but it has few other virtues. My Bristol is valueless for observation – not least for lacking an observer – but it can carry bombs or a gun and is very nipp
y indeed. I am one of the lucky men, too.”
“Is that a good thing, Tommy, to be lucky? What happens when the luck runs out?”
“It won’t. I have had two men’s luck already and I shall have more. Some men are born lucky – and I am one of them. I’ve got you, and I can’t be luckier than that!”
She was not convinced, but there was no gain to arguing.
Winchester was a greyer town than she remembered even from a few weeks before; the streets were full of khaki, soldiers wandering along on liberty and with nothing to do until the pubs opened.
“They make very little noise, Tommy. Most of them hardly seem to talk at all.”
“New men in, mostly. They will have done their first six weeks and are now allowed out of barracks, but they are still civilians in their heads, I suspect. Most of them will be wondering if they did the right thing when they signed up, and all will know that there’s no way out now. I expect as well that they are nervous about their future. They will be moved out of the barracks in Winchester to the camps out on Salisbury Plain soon, and then they will start to learn how to fight, or so they think. Add to that, almost no money in their pockets. They haven’t got a lot to shout about.”
“How soon will they go to France?”
“Some may be sent immediately – it depends if their regiment needs men in a sudden hurry. Most will be trained for a few months, I expect.”
They came to a jeweller and turned their minds to more important matters; a birthday present deserved far more consideration.
“Not diamonds. Don’t like them, for some reason. Do you like rubies?”
That, she thought, was a silly question – everyone must like rubies. Did she prefer them to diamonds or sapphires? She had never had the opportunity to form such an opinion.
Ring, brooch, bracelet or necklace was the next enquiry.
“Not a ring, I think, Tommy. Brooch or necklace, I would prefer.”
They looked through the display of stones, spotted a necklace in modern style, gold and rubies graduated in size from a heart-shaped central stone.
The jeweller was rather pleased with the piece – the ruby at the centre being of good colour and size but unfortunately irregular in form; he thought he had done well with it.
“The shape, of course, Captain, reduces the value of the stone. Had it been perfect then I much doubt whether it could ever have reached the hand of a mere provincial man! The gold is American – a deeper colour than South African, as a general rule. I like it for working with rubies. It is priced at seven hundred, sir.” He glanced at their faces, saw shock on Monkey’s. “Pounds, that is, not guineas.”
“Oh, but that is far too much…”
She saw Tommy pulling out his cheque-book.
“One of the advantages of being in France, my love, is that it is very hard to spend money. I have not touched the income my father left me for nearly a year now.” He turned to the jeweller, enquired whether he would wish to clear the cheque before delivering the necklace.
“Not at all, sir! It would be a sad world where one could not accept the paper of an officer and a gentleman!”
“It would be indeed, sir. I have been considering a wristwatch, to wear when flying. It is sometimes difficult to consult a pocket watch, and not all aeroplanes are fitted with a timepiece.”
Tommy was wearing his greatcoat, his wings invisible.
“I had not realised that you were a pilot, sir. I should, of course, have recognised your name. Most remiss of me! A wristwatch, sir. We have a number, as is to be expected, but you will require a robust specimen, rather than one suitable for the drawing room. We do make watches for the use of sporting gentlemen, cased in chromium steel and with a strong leather strap. Let me show you an example, sir…”
The jeweller turned to his display and produced three different watches, each large and best described as sturdy.
“Are they resistant to the cold of heights, sir? The temperature can be well below freezing when flying at six or even eight thousand feet.”
They found a watch that seemed appropriate, and discovered its cost to be remarkably low, the jeweller regretting, though not aloud, that he had added some fifty pounds to the price of the necklace. He had a nephew who had recently entered training with the RFC and felt they were to an extent a part of the family.
“Are new pilots always sent to France, Captain Stark? Do they receive postings elsewhere on occasion?”
“A relative, sir?”
“My brother’s eldest boy. He left his school to join. He turned eighteen and would not wait till the end of the school year in June.”
Tommy searched for the right words.
“It is a young man’s war, sir, and the best go first, as is to be expected. We find these youngsters to be very determined to do their bit for King and Country, sir, and it is little use to tell them that they should complete their education to provide for their future. Their sole interest is the present. Most come out to France, though a few, I understand, are posted to Home squadrons which will provide defence to our great cities if the need arises. I believe it is in the minds of the generals to rotate fliers between England and France – perhaps six months of flying to battle followed by the same as instructors at training fields. Flying in France can be very tiring – long hours in the air, very often.”
“Are you posted back to England, Captain Stark?”
“No. Leave for ten days, due to the weather in France being even colder than it is here. We have had snow blanketing our airfields for a fortnight now.”
“A welcome break, in fact, sir.”
“Any break is welcome.”
They left, necklace and wristwatch tucked away safely in Tommy’s pocket, underneath his greatcoat.
“What next, Monkey?”
“Home, Tommy. It grows colder, and I have no wish to be stranded on the road in a snowstorm.”
They had to drive over the Downs to get to Long Benchley, not a great altitude in absolute terms, but sufficiently high that they could pick up a couple of feet of snow on a bad day.
Home and crowding in front of the fire, Monkey showing her mother the necklace and much envied.
Abbot brought in post from the third delivery, a large foolscap envelope, rather thick, tied with twine and red wax sealed.
“Highly official, Abbot.”
“From the office of the Minister for War, I believe, sir.”
Abbot produced a paper knife, to assist in the opening process.
“Oh, very pompous and highly official, what does it mean?” Tommy peered at the text, handwritten in a flowing copperplate on the thickest of paper. “His Imperial Majesty the Tsar of all the Russias… How many Russias are there? And what’s he to do with me? What’s this in the bottom?”
He shook the envelope and a well-wrapped little packet slipped out.
“Undo that for me, would you, Monkey? I must try to puzzle this out.”
She came up with an ornate white-enamel cross, rather like the German Maltese cross for shape, with a tiny gold central figure of a knight slaying a dragon, the whole about one and a half inches across.
“What is it, Tommy?”
“Half a mo’, almost there, got it! The Order of St George, Fourth Class, awarded by the Tsar to deservingly heroic warriors. Which I must be – by order!”
He shook the envelope again and a slip of ribbon fell out, gaudy in vertical stripes, three black and two gold.
“Back to Gieves, it would seem, love. I must order up more uniforms – they get covered in oil and grease despite the flying coat over the top. Proper ribbons on all of them.”
“But, why Russian, Tommy?”
“Damned if I know – it might be some sort of lottery, for all I know; the Tsar sends a couple of dozen of them over in the diplomatic bag and then they stick our names in a hat and draw them out. As well, the King of the Belgians is said to be dishing out his medals and I might pick up one of them. Nothing like a yard or two of fancy braid o
n the chest – makes a man think that he might be a warrior after all.”
“I presume the Order of St George is thought to be particularly appropriate for the English, Tommy. It still seems strange to me. And why, might I enquire, are you only Fourth Class?”
Tommy suggested that it might be because he was still young, and somewhat like these Removes he had heard of in the schools; he might get First class when he joined the bigger boys. He returned to puzzling over the letter.
“I’ve got it! The Tsar must have his ration of crosses to give out each year; he can’t dish out many to the Russian Army, because the Germans are kicking the sh… I mean, defeating them. So he’s sent the spares across to England to be used up here!”
“What were they kicking, Tommy?”
“I’ll tell you later, my dear.”
Leave came to its end, the days passing far more quickly than they did in France, and Tommy stepped into his first-class compartment, off to Waterloo and then to Dover. Monkey stood on the platform to wave, turning back to the car only after the train was out of sight. Her mother tried to offer her comfort, was shrugged off, almost irritably.
“Yes, I know he will be back in six months at the most, Mama. Or never. I wish I could go with him, but that cannot be, I know. Perhaps, though, I may have some part of him still, Mama. This is the second month that nothing has happened, if you understand what I mean, Mama.”
“Two months is too early to be sure, Grace. You must go to the doctor at three. I hope you may be right, my dear, for I know just how much we must wish for Tommy’s child. Your father would be delighted, too, for he misses George greatly and feels that he should not have pushed him towards the Army. He would love his grandchildren, and yours far more than Lavinia’s, for the nature of the father. He loves Tommy like a son, you know.”
A Deadly Caper
Chapter Nine
A Deadly Caper (Innocents At War Series, Book 2) Page 21