It was dark outside. The Flying Scotsman’s rapid progress was now impeded by steep gradients and sharp curves of the Highlands. As it climbed, the wheels made a dogged, metallic ‘clacking.’ Lulled by the sound, Thomson’s mind became filled with thoughts of Marthe. What would he do about her? What could he do about her? She was his most difficult, and by far, most important problem.
Problem? That’s too harsh a term.
If he did call her a problem, she was certainly one he would not wish to be without. She caused him pain—exquisite pain that never went away, clawing at him constantly. He’d been so close in the past, but like a beautiful bird, she always remained just out of reach and ready to fly off.
I’m a man forever in pursuit—that’s the mark of a true thoroughbred woman! Why am I—someone who has commanded thousands of men in the worst hells on earth—as docile and compliant as a new born lamb in this delightful creature’s hands?
March 24th, 1915 had changed him forever. The Romanian King Ferdinand had hosted a soiree at Cotroceni Palace in Bucharest. There, British diplomats had told Thomson he’d be contacted by an official at the highest level. Thomson had stood in the lower hall of the reception area from which a grand staircase swept up to the galleries above, between cascading fountains and palm trees. While a five-piece orchestra played chamber music, he chatted with British embassy personnel about life in Romania—a mountainous country he found breathtakingly beautiful.
The walls flanking the staircase, lined with paintings of Romanian rulers and warriors from centuries past, reached up to the crystal dome a hundred feet above. He watched as Princess Marthe made her regal entry. Gliding down the stairs, she moved as though suspended in air. He took in every part of her: her beautifully shaped hands and fine fingers on the gleaming brass rail, her slender arms exposed from the three-quarter-length sleeves of a gown that did not hug her body, but hinted with subtlety at what lay beneath. Made of black and dark green satin overlaid with chiffon, the gown had a scooped neck, which perfectly set off a shimmering diamond necklace. He took note of her shapely ankles and delicate feet fitted into the latest-fashion shoes—stylish, black and dark green kid pumps with Louis heels, steel beaded and embroidered—perfectly complementing her dress. Her shining, dark brown hair, gathered and pulled back tightly to her head, accentuated her high cheekbones and fell in a coil at the neck. Her eyes were black and bituminous and her skin as smooth and white as porcelain. Her slightly open, full, red lips, revealed perfect, even, white teeth.
From the moment she put her foot on the top step, her eyes rested upon him, making him feel as though he were the only person in that crowded room. For months he’d been in miserable surroundings in France and Belgium, where the sight and stench of death were an unbearable weight he’d learned to live with. She awakened in him intense joy of living and of love, a sharp contrast after being dead so long in mind and body. Thomson stood and marveled, becoming deaf to all sound in the room—the orchestra and the chatter of people around him. He listened to the soft rustling of her dress as she approached. When she drew close, he realized her eyes were, in fact, dark green, not black. Staring into them for the first time, he saw both joy, and sadness, as well as the thing they most had in common—loneliness.
He was suddenly struck by the recognition that this had happened to him before. There had been a magnificent young creature in an open-topped white carriage on a summer’s day in 1902 on Rue de Rivoli. She’d taken his breath away and he still carried the vision of that girl with him to this day. He often dreamed of her. How old would she have been? Fifteen—maybe younger! Surely, this couldn’t be her, thirteen years older. He tried to calculate. His mind wouldn’t function.
That was Paris. This is Bucharest. Silly romantic notions. Stop it!
His palms sweated. His throat became dry. He smiled at her, as though reuniting with a lost love. He reached out and took her hand and kissed it.
“Princess Marthe, I am—”
Her Parisian accent stunned and captivated him, once again setting off thoughts of the girl in the white carriage.
“My dear Colonel Thomson, I know exactly who you are and why you’re here, and naturally, I’ll be completely at your disposal,” she said, fluttering her long, dark eyelashes. From that moment, Thomson was a lost soul. The evening was perfect, the attraction seemingly mutual. They conversed in English and French and even a little Italian and German. They didn’t leave each other’s side the entire evening. People assumed they were a couple.
Marthe became invaluable to him during his months in Romania, enabling him to accomplish the task that he’d been sent by Lord Kitchener to carry out—to bring Romania into the war—a mission he didn’t believe in, since he knew that country was totally unprepared. Marthe had a complete grasp of Romanian politics and access to every politician who mattered—her father the Foreign Minister, the Prime Minister—even the King himself. They saw much of each other and Thomson’s attachment grew into blind, unconditional love.
True, she’d been married into the aristocracy at fifteen. To Thomson, this didn’t count as marriage, and besides, her husband was an absentee spouse, always in pursuit of fast cars, fast aeroplanes and loose women. Thomson was thankful and prayed the fool wouldn’t learn the error of his ways. He soldiered on, hoping one day she’d be his. He couldn’t bring himself to face the fact that Marthe, a devout Roman Catholic, would never divorce her negligent husband. But racing cars and aeroplanes were dangerous pastimes—who knew? Fate could intervene.
During that magnificent spring, their love grew with a magical intensity found only in romantic fairytales—‘The Soldier and the Princess’, this one might have been called. One night, at her home on the banks of the Colentina, thoughts of marriage must have been going through her head. She’d thoughtlessly left her diary open beside her bed:
Kit has been my guardian angel. Oh, to lift the veil to see what might be written in the stars! Tonight, he came to me with special roses and the promise of his eternal devotion.
Had it been thoughtlessness, or had she left it there purposely for him to read? Eight years later and he still couldn’t fathom that. Thomson often thought about those words written in her beautiful hand, now etched into his brain. Had she been romancing? Or worse, leading him on? Did she believe, as he did, that her husband’s activities were too dangerous for his survival? He must surely die in an air crash sometime. Or did she contemplate facing up to the Catholic Church? Most unlikely! At times, he put it down to a young woman’s fantasy during a war-time romance brought on by the death of her beloved father. Impossible thoughts! His mind went round and round like a damned carousel and he began to curse the day he’d seen her diary.
That careless or deliberate act had shaped his destiny and sealed his fate. Over the years, he tortured himself with longing, just as he was doing now on this dark night, alone in a railway carriage somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. He’d seen photographs of young, handsome men in ornate gold frames on Marthe’s dressing table; one was George, her husband, two she said were beloved cousins, while another was ‘a very dear friend’—Prince Charles-Louis, away at the Front.
After Thomson’s negotiations with the government, Romania entered the war and in a matter of months Germany invaded and overwhelmed the country, just as he’d predicted. Before supervising the destruction of the country’s oil wells (ironically, aided by Marthe’s husband, George), Thomson helped Marthe escape to safety. Then he got posted to Palestine, where he spent the remainder of the conflict alone with his bitter sweet memories.
After the war, Thomson took part in the surrender of the Ottoman Empire aboard HMS Agamemnon at Moudros Harbor in the Greek Islands. After that, he worked on the Armistice in France until the end of 1919. Throughout the tumultuous years from their meeting to the present day, his romance with Marthe entailed endless separation, relieved by touching letters and all-too-rare meetings in London, Paris and, after the war, Bucharest. He always kept a few of her letters
with him. He had some in his briefcase on the seat beside him tonight, along with a shoe wrapped in white tissue. The letters were tied with one of her blue silk ribbons. He carefully took out one of the worn envelopes, and held it to his nose for traces of her divine scent. He clasped the sacred document, reading her words. He’d written to her constantly and she’d never failed to reply, albeit late sometimes, particularly as time went by. He suspected she must have been forming new attachments, or renewing old ones with ‘dear friends’ home from the Front.
His thoughts and actions constantly swirled around her. He was a man ensnared, but he’d have it no other way. He was blissfully happy in his unhappiness. If he managed to gain a post in His Majesty’s Government, he believed his stock would rise, which might cause things to change dramatically in his favor. Where there was hope, there was life.
Thomson was jolted from his reminiscences as the train slowed and blew its whistle before entering Aberdeen. It eased its way into the quaint country station of damp, gray stone where Ramsay McDonald waited to greet him. Suddenly, he remembered it was New Year’s Eve. His spirits rose.
Thomson stepped down from his carriage and the mustachioed McDonald came forward with two hands outstretched. He wasn’t as tall as Thomson, but he exuded extraordinary charisma, making him larger than life. He had an earnest face and his blue eyes sparkled with both passion and with pain.
“My dear Thomson. Happy New Year to you!”
“Mr. MacDonald. Yes, I’m sure it’s going to be a very special New Year for you and for us all! But you shouldn’t have bothered coming to the station, sir.”
“Nonsense! We’ve not a moment to lose, we’ve lots to talk about—and please call me Ramsay. Come, I’m in the local cab. One of the few cars we have in Lossie!”
The two men headed for the taxi, and once inside, McDonald pulled the privacy window closed. “Excuse us, Jock,” MacDonald called to the driver.
The journey to Lossiemouth took almost two hours, during which time they made small talk. Although it was dark and he could see little, Thomson sensed he was in a desolate place.
“I hope you brought your walking shoes?” MacDonald asked.
“Yes, I remembered.”
“We’ll get some of this clean Scottish air down your lungs. We’ll walk and talk whilst you’re here, laddie,” MacDonald said. “And we’ll make plans.”
“I look forward to that. I can’t wait to see the beautiful countryside.”
“This is God’s own country. I promise you’ll love it.”
The taxi turned into a gravel drive and stopped outside a two-story house nestled between sycamore trees. The wind hissed in their swaying branches. Lights in the windows and on the porch were warm and welcoming. Before getting out of the car, MacDonald gestured toward the house.
“This is our home. Built this for my mother and children in 1909 and she lived here till she died two years later. She loved it and so do we, still. Nothing’s changed since Mother’s time—except we have electricity now. Ishbel, my daughter, keeps things running smoothly.”
They climbed out of the taxi and Thomson attempted to pay the driver, but MacDonald told him to forget it. “I pay Jock for his services each week,” he said.
A handsome young woman of about twenty opened the door with a gracious smile, the resemblance to her father clear.
“This is Ishbel. Looks like me, but lucky for her, she has her mother’s common sense.”
“Mr. Thomson, welcome to ‘The Hillocks’. Please come in and make yourself comfortable,” Ishbel said, her Highland accent distinctive. “Come in and get warm. I’ll get the tea mashing.” She ushered the men into the parlor, where a fire crackled in a large fireplace with a black cast iron surround, incorporating a cooking stove. They stood for a moment warming themselves before removing their coats.
“My close friends call me Christopher, CB, or Kit. So, please, no more Mr. Thomson.”
Ishbel smiled. “Very well, I shall call you Christopher,” she said, taking the boiling kettle from the fireplace hob. She poured hot water into a brown earthenware teapot and put on the woolen tea cozy.
“And I’ll call you CB!” MacDonald said.
Over the fireplace, on the two-tiered mantel among the knick-knacks, were family photos Thomson took to be of MacDonald’s mother, wife and six children. Thomson listened to the loudly ticking clock at center as it began striking the eleventh hour. The day had been long.
One more hour. Who knows what the New Year will bring?
In a glance, Thomson realized his impression from the exterior had been correct; this was the coziest of places. He felt the presence of MacDonald’s wife and mother looking over them, a position now fulfilled by Ishbel—a role she obviously took pleasure in. After several cups of tea and ham sandwiches, MacDonald announced a toast. He opened a bottle of local Scotch and poured out three glasses.
“We welcome you, my dear CB, to Lossiemouth and to our home. Here’s to you. We wish you a most pleasant stay,” MacDonald said.
“I’m honored to be here in this delightful place,” Thomson said, “especially for Hogmanay—a time sacred for Scotsmen. I didn’t bring you any coal and now I kick myself. Anyway, from this Indian-born Englishman, please accept sincere wishes to you both for a happy and progressive new year.”
The three raised their glasses.
“Don’t worry about the coal, CB. We’ll soon have plenty, you’ll see,” MacDonald said.
MacDonald was right. As the clock on the mantel struck twelve, there was a commotion at the front door. Local people crowded into the house carrying lumps of coal and bottles of Scotch. Glasses were poured and toasts proposed. They wished MacDonald luck in his aspirations, though nobody mentioned the words ‘Prime Minister.’
The small band of well-wishers was soon gone and Thomson, MacDonald and Ishbel were left alone in the parlor, uplifted, but exhausted. After clearing away the glasses and putting the pieces of coal in the hearth, Ishbel led Thomson upstairs to his bedroom, explaining that this was ‘Mother’s room’ reserved for ‘special guests.’ Thomson felt honored. The room was spacious, its slanting ceilings contoured to the roof with white painted beams and boards. White bed linens and curtains contrasted with the antique hardwood furniture and dark board flooring. At the center was an inviting single bed, with plenty of fluffed pillows and a matching eiderdown. Beside a small casement window was a chest with a bowl and water jug with neatly folded towels. Most welcoming of all: a fire in the grate, made him feel warm and secure.
Thomson thanked Ishbel as she left, closing the white, planked door behind her, the metal thumb latch clanking in its keep. This was luxury after his bedsit in Stockwell. He wearily undressed and climbed into bed, the metal springs complaining until he was still. He was pleasantly surprised to find not just one hot water bottle in the bed, but two. He was asleep within seconds, dreaming.
It was Paris, the year 1902 on Rue de Rivoli. As a young lieutenant, he trudged behind a white horse-drawn carriage as it moved slowly up the dirt road, flanked by cloistered stone buildings. He could see the back of a young girl in the carriage. She wore a white dress and a matching wide-brimmed hat. He longed to catch a glimpse of her face, sensing he knew her. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep up. He watched in dismay as the carriage gradually pulled away. The driver, dressed in black livery and a top hat, turned and looked over his shoulder at him with a mocking grin.
4
HIGHLAND WALKS
January 1, 1924.
Thomson didn’t stir until Ishbel knocked gently and placed a tea tray on the floor beside the door. Thomson opened his eyes, squinting against the glorious morning sunlight that streamed through the small casement windows.
“It’s seven thirty, Christopher. Breakfast will be served at eight,” she called.
“Thank you, Ishbel.”
“No trouble at all,” she said.
Thomson listened to her footsteps receding down the stairs. He jumped out o
f bed and gazed out at the frosty fields and snowy hills in the distance. He felt marvelous.
Washed and dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a matching woolen sweater, Thomson went down to the parlor. MacDonald was already seated at the oak table drinking tea. He was slightly more formal, wearing a white shirt and a tie with a V-neck tartan jumper.
“Ah, there ye are, laddie. Did’ya sleep all right?” he asked. “Ready to face the day?”
There it was again. Thomson had never been called ‘laddie’, but took it as a term of endearment. “I’ve never slept so well in my life, Ramsay.”
“After your journey, I expect you could’ve slept on a clothes line,” MacDonald said.
“I actually enjoyed the train. Gave me time to think.”
Ishbel put down plates of eggs, bacon and mushrooms in front of them. A young girl in a white apron stood holding a thick slice of bread to the fire on a brass toasting fork.
“Toast is coming. Martha is our helper,” Ishbel said.
“Ah, Martha! My favorite name,” Thomson said, making the girl smile shyly.
“I’m going to suggest you and I stretch our legs this morning. We have some wonderful walks in Lossie,” MacDonald said.
“Splendid. I just peeked out of my window and the view is stunning.”
“I like to walk. Clears my head. We can get to know each other.”
After breakfast, they wrapped themselves up in warm coats and swallowed a tot of Glenfiddich. The air was cold, but it was sunny and the wind had dropped. Thomson found the calling of the seabirds overhead and the biting fresh air, exhilarating. They set off down the lane toward the little town center. After a few minutes, they stood outside a dilapidated, ridiculously small, stone cottage.
“I was born in this wee one-room house,” MacDonald said.
Thomson was intrigued, realizing just how far this man had come. MacDonald led him along the street where people smiled and wished them a ‘Happy New Year.’ Others, though, crossed the road and passed by on the other side, refusing to look in their direction.
The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue. Page 8