The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue.

by David Dennington

  MacDonald chuckled. “You see, not everybody loves me,” he said.

  Thomson gave him a wry smile. “Apparently not.”

  After a few minutes they stopped again, this time in front of an ivy-clad house with an overgrown garden. This dwelling was much larger.

  “This is where I grew up,” MacDonald said.

  Thomson was unable to tell if this was pride in MacDonald, or shame. The man was clearly showing him who he was and where he’d come from.

  “Our childhoods couldn’t have been more different. My earliest recollections are of India. I lived there until I was four,” Thomson told him.

  They walked to the Lossie River, which meandered lazily into the sea just a few hundred yards away. Crossing over a small wooden footbridge, they wandered down to the beach where the foamy surf at low tide made a soft hiss. Thomson sucked the sea air deep into his lungs. They strolled in silence for a while, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Thomson pondered the question of Marthe and whether he dare broach the subject. He took the plunge.

  “Ramsay, there’s something I need to mention from the onset.”

  MacDonald appeared mystified, perhaps a little worried, but waited patiently.

  “I’m involved with a woman. Have been for the last eight years. She’s married—a princess.”

  “My word, how splendid. A princess no less! My God, man, I thought you were going to tell me you’d committed robbery or murder.”

  Hugely relieved, Thomson smiled.

  I’m a fool. This man already knows all about her. He’s done his homework. Canny, old Scotsman!

  “And you’re in love with this woman?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Afraid so! Don’t be afraid. I was in love with the most wonderful woman in the world, but I lost her.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “My wife was the bravest person I’ve ever known. She fought for the working class all her short life, championing women’s causes and encouraging them to unionize.” Thomson knew that when his wife had died, MacDonald was sick with grief for years to the point of total collapse. “She was the sun in my universe. When she went, the world fell into pitch darkness—and it still is for much of the time.”

  “I hope you can take solace in the children she gave you,” Thomson said.

  “Yes, there’s that to be thankful for.” MacDonald turned his face away toward the sea. A squall was building on the horizon. Thomson bowed his head, sharing the man’s sorrow. MacDonald suddenly looked up as though he’d received a shot of adrenaline.

  “So you’re in love, my boy. Wonderful! That’s all that matters. Love is all!”

  This pleased Thomson. Marthe’s beautiful face filled his mind. He knew she’d be delighted to hear MacDonald’s words, if only one day she could.

  “I’m glad you don’t disapprove, Ramsay.”

  “No, I wholeheartedly approve! Every man needs the love of a good woman. When love comes along, grasp it with both hands.”

  “You don’t see this as being a possible hindrance or political embarrassment?”

  “Och, no! Most of the people in Parliament have doxies on the side. Same with the Royals—the aristocracy are even worse!”

  “And what about you? Do you see yourself marrying again?”

  “No, no. Plenty of women show interest, especially now of course. But no one could fill Margaret’s shoes. I could never fall in love with another woman. Real love comes only once in a lifetime. You know, there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to spend one more day with her. Just one day.”

  “But not your immortal soul?”

  “Oh, no! I shall need that for when we’re reunited, laddie.” They continued along the beach in silence until the sand turned to shingle, then headed inland toward the river and followed the footpath along its bank.

  “They said I was a bloody, godless, Commie bastard, you know,” MacDonald said suddenly. Thomson showed slight surprise. He’d heard vicious things, but dismissed them.“Wouldn’t let me build our home on Prospect Terrace. ‘No Red bastard will build up here,’ they said. Oh well, I like it where we are. It turned out fine.”

  “It’s a wonderful location,” said Thomson.

  “Well, they got it partly right. I am a bastard.”

  “Ramsay!” He’d heard this before and dismissed that, too.

  “My mother was a seamstress, God bless her, and my father, a ploughman. She wouldn’t marry him.” MacDonald laughed, but it sounded hollow. Thomson found himself speechless. MacDonald pointed to the hills in the distance. “See the fairways over there? Moray Golf Club. They expelled me—for my stance on the war. I vehemently opposed it. Truth is, they got me out because I wasn’t good enough—no pedigree.”

  “I’m sorry they treated you badly, Ramsay.”

  “Are you sure you want to get mixed up with me?” MacDonald asked earnestly.

  “Ramsay, it’d be an honor.”

  The path led into a pine wood and, as they entered, MacDonald pulled out a hip flask and offered it to Thomson who took a swig, savoring the exquisite Scotch.

  “Such a wonderful New Year’s Day,” Thomson said, wiping his mouth as the liquor warmed his belly.

  “This is Macallan! Best Scotch in the world; distilled right here in Moray,” MacDonald exclaimed.

  “Mm, excellent!”

  “When I opposed the war, they painted ‘Traitor’ on our front garden wall. Said I was a German sympathizer. I tell you this: I did oppose the bloody war and I’ll oppose the next one, too—unless we’re attacked, of course.”

  “I’m a soldier and I despise war myself. Most military men do.”

  “I may be a pacifist, but I went over to the trenches at the Front in Ypres to see our boys and they threw me out—had me arrested and shipped home,” MacDonald said. Thomson was incredulous. “When I got back to England I went straight to Lord Kitchener and complained. He was furious.”

  “Kitchener was a good man,” Thomson said.

  “After that, he gave me free reign to go wherever I pleased on all fronts, which I did. Saw some action. It was dreadful—but I don’t need to tell you that.”

  MacDonald offered Thomson the flask and he took another drink. MacDonald did the same. “CB, I may be a bastard, but I’m still a patriot—I’m not a bloody Commie. The carnage I saw on that battlefield and in those field hospitals was appalling—broke my heart, I can tell you. Convinced me more than ever: War is evil! I witnessed the slaughter and suffering of our men, driven mad by non-stop shelling, mustard gas, lice, sores, trench-foot, hunger and exhaustion. Just boys most of ’em, up to their thighs in water, filth and body parts. Blown to pieces—dead or maimed in mind and body. I was right to oppose it!”

  “You were right, Ramsay. I was at Ypres, myself.”

  “Bless my soul! We may have rubbed shoulders in that hell hole.”

  They walked on in silence through the leafless woods until MacDonald stopped and took hold of his own coat lapels as if addressing a multitude.

  “It was a crime against humanity, that’s what it was!”

  “Indeed it was.”

  “I love this little country and our great empire. My goal is to make sure the sun never sets upon it—and it never shall, as long as we honor God and we’re faithful to our convictions. Yes, yes, I know this all sounds odd coming from an old left-winger like me. Most Leftists, Progressives and Socialists are Atheists. I'm not one of 'em. I'm not overly religious, but I do believe in God. I really fear that if we turn our back on Him, He will turn away from us and say, ‘Very well, if ye want Satan—then ye shall have him in abundance’.”

  Thomson nodded in agreement. He wasn't sure if MacDonald was quoting from the Bible. It sounded like it.

  “You see, I’m not the radical they say I am. There’s a vast difference between a socialist and a communist. I believe in fairness and opportunity for all people. Everyone deserves a doctor and a roof over their heads. I believe socialism is the best hope for the world.�
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  MacDonald continued tugging his jacket lapels. He strutted around mesmerizing his audience of one. “Marx was right about many things; he said capitalism could never survive. I believe in freedom for all people. Socialism will provide that: freedom from poverty, freedom from hunger, freedom from suffering, freedom from fear and freedom from ruthless employers. The workhouse must be abolished forever! The working class deserves those freedoms. We must stand together behind the state, for state ownership and state enterprise. The wealth of the nation must be shared; it must be spread for the benefit of all. The pie is large and must be cut up into equal parts. I don’t believe in revolution—not violent revolution—I’m not a revolutionary! But I do believe in change; change by persuasion, by appealing to people’s intellect and their better nature. I’m not really an imperialist, or a colonizer, but I do believe, having inherited the situation, we have a golden opportunity and an obligation to improve the lot of others in all those far off places. Our goal will be: the betterment of mankind throughout the empire—and the world!”

  “And we shall achieve that goal, Ramsay. I’m certain,” Thomson assured him. “But when we’ve made the world into a perfect place, what need of us will they have then?”

  “The poor will be always with us, CB. That’s not something you need worry about—not in our lifetime.”

  Thomson listened in wonder, he’d much to learn. They came out of the wood onto a country road and walked to the Garmouth Hotel, a quaint stucco building with gabled roofs.

  “You must be ready for lunch. I’m starving,” MacDonald said.

  The hotel manager greeted MacDonald warmly, obviously expecting them. He led them into a small dining room with low ceilings and a table set with fine linen and sparkling silver. First, they drank beer to quench their thirst. After a splendid lunch, they enjoyed brandy and cigars while they waited for Jock to come and take them back to ‘Lossie’.

  New Year’s Day ended with a cosy evening at ‘Hillocks’ by the fire, exchanging stories. Ishbel sat crocheting silently in a corner. Thomson perceived Ishbel to be an intelligent young woman whose advice was often sought by her father. After an early nightcap and a cup of cocoa, Thomson excused himself and climbed the stairs to Mother’s room.

  Three more wonderful days passed, walking and talking and visiting various landmarks. On Thomson’s last day during a walk in Quarry Wood, near Elgin, MacDonald stopped in his tracks, as if a thought had just occurred to him.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his eyes piercing.

  Thomson was taken by surprise. “What do I want?”

  “What Ministry do you want? Foreign Ministry? War?”

  Canny, old Scot! I like this man.

  “Air, I think.’’

  “Air! Why Air?”

  “I thought you’d want to take the Foreign Ministry yourself. As for the War Ministry—I think it might ruffle a few feathers. Many of those people were my superiors.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Might set off a few fireworks!”

  “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I think I could do well with the Air Ministry, in view of my time on the airship advisory panel,” Thomson said.

  “Hmm. The Air Ministry?”

  “There’s so much potential. Air power will be one of the most important developments in the country’s future—the empire’s future. It has so much to offer regarding employment—absolutely vital to the success of your government,” Thomson said.

  “Our government!”

  Later that morning, they were driven to the Elgin Hotel, one of the oldest and finest in Moray, where MacDonald had arranged luncheon. Once again, they were warmly welcomed by the manager who seated them at the window in a private Victorian dining room with splendid views of the countryside. Over bowls of mushroom soup, MacDonald raised the question of how Thomson was to be slipped into his government, should they take up the reins of power.

  “To bring you in, it’ll be necessary for me to raise you to the peerage, I’m afraid,” MacDonald said, with an apologetic frown. Thomson had anxiously awaited this discussion. The future—especially where Marthe was concerned—rested on this. He was ready.

  MacDonald continued. “So, you’ll have to become ‘Lord Thomson of something or other.’ Any thoughts about that?”

  “Of Cardington, I think.” Thomson said without hesitation.

  “Cardington! Where does that come from?”

  “Cardington in Bedfordshire. The center of the airship industry, or it was. It will be from there, that we'll begin its revitalization. We'll create thousands of new jobs under this, the cornerstone, of our new state enterprise policy.”

  “You certainly have been giving this a lot of thought. Good. Air it is then. As long as you don’t go buzzing around all over the place. I need a man with a wise head fixed reliably on his shoulders and his feet planted firmly on the ground.”

  “Thank you, Ramsay. I’m delighted.”

  “Airships, eh. I don’t know. Aeroplanes are okay, but airships …”

  “They’ve fascinated me since I got bombed by a Zeppelin in Bucharest in 1914.”

  “Sounds unpleasant. I hope you’re not planning to drop bombs on anyone.”

  “No. The goal will be the building of a luxurious, mass air transportation system reaching around the globe. The Germans are well ahead in this field and we must catch up.”

  They sat through the next two courses discussing the nationalization of other industries, banking in particular. MacDonald spoke about the need to build vast tracts of ‘state housing’ for the working classes. Over dessert, Thomson laid out his ideas for setting up his ‘New British Airship Program.’

  “I’ll propose that the whole scheme be set up as two entities, one being state enterprise, and the other ‘private’ or ‘business—capitalist.’ The head of Vickers, Dennistoun Burney, has ideas of private industry taking over the whole future airship industry—with profit being his sordid motive, of course. I plan to head Burney off and keep him contained. My intent is to show the country once and for all that we should look to government to do things properly—and fairly. Once we prove this point by building the best airships, the most luxurious and the safest in the world, the profiteers will never be able to compete, because government won’t have the burden of profit built into the cost. They, on the other hand, will be shackled by the need to make money for greedy shareholders eager for their dividends. This will be a contest. A contest they can never win.”

  “Most interesting and challenging! Well thought out. The world will be watching,” MacDonald said. “We shall drink a brandy to your success.”

  “Burney knew I was on the airship panel. He must have known of my political leanings. He probably contributed money to the campaign funds of my opponents in my two election attempts,” Thomson complained.

  “He did nothing illegal. To capitalists, money is like mother’s milk. Welcome to the cruel, rough-and-tumble world of politics, dear boy. But he didn’t win did he? You’re going to be the one in the driver’s seat!”

  “Yes, I’ll defeat him and leave him in the dust. I plan to bury him along with capitalism.”

  “That’s the spirit, CB!”

  When Thomson inquired about a bill, it was brushed off. No bill was presented to the table—not that Thomson had much money to pay. He only had four pounds in his wallet.

  “Your English money is no good here,” MacDonald said.

  “You’re too kind, Ramsay,” Thomson replied. “Now I must get ready for my journey home tomorrow.”

  MacDonald studied him kindly for a moment.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but I know you’ve been a little down at the heel …living in that Stockwell bedsit …” MacDonald began. Thomson had seen him glance at his threadbare jacket lapels and felt ashamed. “…But all that’s about to change. I know your pain. When I came to London before I was married, I was starving—no I mean, literally starving! My mother used to send me oatmeal by mail. My
wife saved me in every sense. She was middle class and my life changed, and so will yours. I must also tell you I never had much respect for military men, but you have caused me to change my views. It’s not fair that you should be hard up after all you’ve done for your country.”

  The next morning, MacDonald, always the gracious host, took Thomson in his taxi to Aberdeen Station. Two reporters and a photographer were waiting on the platform, presumably arranged by MacDonald. They asked a few questions and MacDonald answered them, though not in detail. After shaking hands—a moment caught on camera—Thomson climbed on board. After doffing his hat to a woman sitting with her young son, he sat next to the window and waved to MacDonald as his train pulled away. He sat back contentedly and gave his companions a beaming smile. The boy was dressed in his Sunday best—a grey jacket and short trousers with a matching flat cap.

  “Is this your son?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the Scottish woman proudly.

  “What’s your name, son?” he asked the boy.

  The child looked at the floor not answering, but kept banging his foot against the paneling on the side of the carriage.

  “His name’s Stuart,” the boy’s mother said.

  “And how old are you, Stuart?” Thomson asked.

  “He’s six. He’s a little shy.”

  “Thomson pulled out the bag of peppermints still in his pocket from W H Smiths and held it out. “Here sonny, would you like a peppermint?”

  “No.”

  “Stuart! Don’t’ be rude to the nice gentleman.”

  Thomson held the bag out to her. She took one to be polite.

  “Do you like trains, son? Thomson asked.

  “No, I hate ’em,” the kid snapped, still looking at the floor as he swung his foot to and fro. The woman chimed in with an apologetic smile.

  “I’m sorry. His grandfather was killed in the Tay Bridge Disaster. It’s all he’s ever heard about when it comes to trains.”

  “Oh dear, I am sorry,” Thomson said.