Lou and Charlotte were married at St. Cuthbert’s the following day, Boxing Day. It was cold but sunny, the fields laden with snow. Lou’s family had sent a telegram wishing them the best for their future with ‘great love.’ They also said they hoped the couple would visit the U.S. before long. Potter, smartly dressed in a grey flannel suit, acted as usher, while Bateman, in naval uniform, performed duties of best man. (Lou and Potter were closer, but Lou knew Potter was too shy and wouldn’t be comfortable.)
Lou wore his officer’s dress blues with the rank of lieutenant. Charlotte suggested he wear his Navy Star, but he refused. She understood and didn’t press it, although she longed to see it pinned on his chest. With or without it, he possessed the looks and charisma of an American movie star, making Charlotte remember poor, broken-hearted Minnie Brown.
Lou got to the church early, after Bateman and Potter picked him up in Bateman’s Morris. They waited nervously in front of the altar rail. A couple of times Lou turned around and winked at Billy who sat with his father, Lenny. Lou made Bateman check three times to make sure he had the two rings in his pocket and each time the answer was same: “Oh my God, what did I do with them?”
Before Charlotte arrived, a commotion started at the church doors where a gang of twelve burley miners had gathered, a fact that had been kept from Lou. Lou found out later Mr. Hamilton had told his workmates from Ackworth Colliery about Lou’s dustup with Jessup at the Mason’s Arms. Jessup arrived on the scene with two other unsavory characters, stinking of alcohol. They hadn’t come to say prayers, or to leave offerings. Lou rushed to the church door as four miners frog-marched Jessup toward the steps at the foot of the graveyard. Jessup turned and saw Lou and flew into a rage.
“I’ve not finished with you—you bastard!” he screamed.
Lou watched the miners manhandle him to the top of the icy steps and throw him down. He slipped and landed in a heap at the bottom, bruised and bleeding, the deep wound to his slashed face, reopened. The men stood with their hands on their hips. Jessup’s friends had already scarpered.
“Try it again, mate, and we’ll break yer bloody neck—just like yer old man’s!” One of the miners turned to Lou, “You can go back and wait for her now, son. Don’t worry; we’ll be at the door.”
Lou returned to the altar rail amid anxious murmuring in the pews, relieved the miners were on guard, although Jessup didn’t scare him. His only concern was for Charlotte. Her day wasn’t to be spoiled. Presently, someone whispered that Charlotte had arrived. Lou turned and stood facing the back of the church in anticipation.
As she entered, a gasp went up from the packed pews. Charlotte was radiant, and when she saw Lou waiting, her face was joyous. She looked stunning in a full-length, high-necked, white lace over satin dress that fitted snugly at her narrow waist and around her shapely bosom. Fanny followed behind as maid of honor.
Charlotte carried a simple bouquet of red roses. Lou watched her make her entry and walk down the aisle on her father’s arm. She was all he ever wanted in a bride. He only wished his family could be here. And then, for a brief moment, he thought of Julia.
After the service, in biting air, they hastily posed for pictures in the snowy church grounds, their new gold rings glinting in the winter sunshine. They drove to the Workingmen’s Club in Pontefract in the shiny black Daimler that had carried Charlotte to the church. It was decked out with traditional, flowing, white silk ribbons.
At the wedding breakfast, Bateman read telegrams sent by well-wishers. One came from Maj. Scott, at the Cardington Royal Airship Works. This puzzled Lou; he wondered how Scott knew about their marriage, but thought it kind of him to take the trouble. No one told Charlotte about Jessup showing up at the church.
The wedding guests spent a long afternoon at Mrs. Scargill’s quaint home next door to Charlotte’s parents’ house. In the evening, celebrations continued in the upstairs rooms of the Brown Cow, where Potter, cigarette between his lips, eyes laughing, delighted everyone by playing hit songs and polkas on his accordion. It created a fun, French atmosphere in the Yorkshire pub that night.
“You make that thing sound beautiful, Walt,” Lou called across the room.
“If anything ’appens to me, it’s yours, sir,” Potter replied, out the side of his mouth.
Later that night, Bateman drove the newly-weds to Monk Fryston Hall, a stately manor house in the Vale of York, where they spent a blissfully happy four-day honeymoon. Charlotte was a shy virgin—about that, there was no doubt—but after a day or two, she became a tigress. The wait had been worth it. When not in their sumptuous room making passionate love or ravenously eating meals brought up to them, they wandered the thirteenth century building with its stone mullioned windows, inglenook fireplaces and ornate, paneled rooms. At other times, they strolled, arm-in-arm in the delightful gardens among stone lions and statues set in acres of frosty woodlands and frozen ponds.
The honeymoon was almost spoiled. Jessup showed up in Monk Fryston Village. He had another dressing on his face after his nasty fall in St. Cuthbert’s graveyard. Lou spotted him lurking behind a tree as they left the hotel and then later, skulking around in the gardens, gazing up at the windows. He didn’t tell Charlotte,
Once back in Hull, they consolidated themselves in Lou’s ground floor one-bedroom flat, which was larger than Charlotte’s bedsit. They took Fluffy with them. Lou, still on disability, decided it was time to notify the Navy he wouldn’t be extending his service due to end in March. He found a job in a country garage where he worked as a mechanic and pumped petrol for customers. The people of Hull treated him like one of their own. His new employer appreciated him and they got on well. Lou was content doing this job—a welcome change, and therapeutic.
Around this time, Charlotte got word that her cousin Geoff, who’d slashed Jessup’s face, had been rushed to hospital. He’d been set upon by four thugs wearing balaclavas who stole his wallet. He’d been stabbed and his face cut with a stiletto, his arm broken and all his front teeth knocked out. He couldn’t identify his attackers. Lou and Charlotte visited Geoff in hospital. The identity of the ‘robbers’ wasn’t hard to guess. Powerless, Lou filed the episode away for another day.
He still had bad dreams and thought about his dead crewmen much of the time. All this was entwined with his war experiences, which had previously subsided, but this latest catastrophic accident revived everything, giving old memories new life.
Lou often drove his motorbike to Howden Air Station, now an abandoned, lonely place. He sat outside the huge doors on an old chair he’d found in one of the scavenged, dilapidated offices. He'd sit searching for answers, wishing he could find peace. The crash of the Roma in his home state of Virginia that February caused him more distress. That airship, flying from Langley, near Great Falls, to Norfolk, hit overhead power lines and caught fire. Thirty-four men perished in the flames. He and Charlotte could not discuss it.
The air station became like hallowed ground. He went there often over the next three years, witnessing the ever-changing, rural landscape through the seasons—in rolling October mist from the river marshes, winter snow, April rain showers and summer sunshine. He sat outside the shed where he befriended the animals: squirrels, rabbits, deer, foxes, stoats, badgers and pheasant. Sometimes he brought them food and they became tame, scampering at his feet.
When he couldn’t sleep, he slid out of bed without disturbing Charlotte. It wasn’t until she heard his motorbike start up down the road and move away, that she woke up. She knew his destination and didn’t worry, confident he’d get over it in time.
Lou liked to light a fire in an old oil drum and sit studying the stars over the old aerodrome, while owls and foxes and other nocturnal creatures made their eerie sounds. If the winds were howling across the desolate plain, he’d find a sheltered spot where he’d listen to the ghostly noise of the building’s skin of loose corrugated sheeting chatter and whine, like a living thing, while the gigantic structure creaked and groaned like a
ship at sea. He always returned home before dawn and crawled back into bed with Charlotte, who turned over sleepily, drawing him close. He felt safe entwined with her, and so did she.
No children came along, which made Lou thankful. They needed more time together and he wasn’t earning enough to start a family. Charlotte was desperate for a child, but knew he was right. It was important they get established first.
8
CHEQUERS
January 1924.
A procession of Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Daimlers, Mercedes and other luxury sedans made its way from Missenden along the winding lanes to the wrought iron entrance gates of Chequers, the Prime Minister’s country residence.
Situated forty miles west of Ten Downing Street, Chequers sat below Beacon Hill, nestling inconspicuously in the Buckinghamshire countryside among the towns of Princes Risborough, Great Missenden and Wendover. From atop the hill, on a clear day, one could take in a sweeping panorama of the Berkshire Downs, the Cotswolds and Salisbury Plain, although there were no good views from the house itself. To the south, the ancient, well-trodden Ridgeway Trail crossed open parkland.
The ancient, russet brick Elizabethan manor with its multi-gabled roofs, leaded windows and tall chimneys was surrounded by high, stone-capped walls and boxwood hedges. The cars passed into the walled courtyard situated on the east side. They made their way on the gravel drive around the quatrefoil-shaped lawn at whose center stood the lead statue of Hygeia, the health goddess, who posed close to a giant tulip tree—said to be the finest in England.
At the imposing entrance, each vehicle disgorged a set of dignitaries, many enjoying a new-found status. They were led to the front door by servants holding umbrellas to protect them from the gently falling snow. This afternoon, the house looked especially magical, like a painting of a winter scene on a Christmas card. Light shone from the windows in the grey gloom, accentuating the Welsh slate roofs, lawns, surrounding hedges and trees, draped in snow.
In the December election, the Tories had failed to obtain a clear majority and after losing a confidence vote in January, Conservative Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin had resigned. Labour joined with the Liberal Party and took up the reins of power and Ramsay MacDonald became Prime Minister. To celebrate this momentous occasion, MacDonald threw a party for Labour Party supporters and trade union bosses.
Thomson had arrived two days earlier and, at MacDonald’s insistence, moved into the state bedroom. This room, with its ornate, Elizabethan four-poster bed, complete with carved, oak lions, was usually reserved for distinguished guests and heads of state. A coal fire burned in the grate under a marble mantel. The view from the windows faced south over Chequers Park and the driveway toward Missenden.
Thomson felt at home at once and found the historical residence had the same effect on other visitors. After his bedsit in Stockwell, his fortunes had taken an extraordinary turn for the better and he considered himself truly blessed. He and MacDonald had been going over matters of state for the past two days, and although they were still in the ‘honeymoon period,’ they appeared to make an excellent team—both were committed to improving the lives of ordinary people. MacDonald had already begun crafting the Housing Act, designed to set in motion the building of half a million homes for working-class families at affordable rents.
They had got off to a cracking start and now, this very afternoon, Thomson would lay the foundation stone of his brainchild. He liked to manage his time efficiently and today he’d do many things simultaneously: celebrate the success of the first Labour Party victory, hire a genius to head up the program, make friends with people who couldn’t relate to him, and lastly, drive the first nail into the coffin of Dennistoun Burney and the rest of those money-grubbing profiteers.
In order to get the airship industry back on its feet, the negative image would first have to be overcome. To do this, he’d move in a new direction, starting with hiring some new people—the best people. Changes would be made in the way things were managed. The process of selling the program to the public would need to be carefully controlled.
The celebration was held in the Great Hall, an imposing room, thirty feet high, with a gallery on the east side adjacent to a huge stone and brick fireplace, alive with blazing logs. An impressive brass chandelier hung at center, casting its glow over a pale green carpet, overlaid with exquisite Persian rugs. Original art covered the walls, and coats of arms, ranging from Lord Lee back to William Hawtrey, adorned all corners of the room.
Thomson stood chatting with MacDonald under a painting of The Mathematician (thought to be a Rembrandt) opposite the galleried end of the room, close to the entrance. Thomson oozed confidence, every inch a polished politician, debonair in a borrowed black tuxedo, stylish wing-tipped collar and silver tie. He was at his most seductive. He’d need to be.
Ishbel, at MacDonald’s right, acted as ‘hostess’ while Thomson stood at his left. The three of them greeted guests as they arrived: first MacDonald, then Ishbel, then Thomson. This gave Thomson immediate status, or so it was hoped. He saw the pleasure of being at last, close to the center of power written on the faces of all who entered—that is, until their eyes fell on him. They gave him inquiring glances, and he sensed their burning resentment. He read their minds.
Who is this man who has leapfrogged into the inner circle? What has he done to get MacDonald elected? Nothing! We’re the ones who’ve worked hard all these years to build this party. Now, from nowhere, here comes this interloper—this upper class fraud!
Thomson gritted his teeth and smiled as he greeted them, but they turned away, openly hostile. Thomson knew he had mountains to climb. He’d need to be patient. He listened to barbed comments—meant for his ears.
“I ‘eard ‘ee killed a lot of Germans in France, Bulgaria and Romania.”
“I ‘eard ‘ee’s having an affair with some ’ot blooded, gypsy woman over there.”
“Bloody disgusting!”
“The movement can do without the likes of ’im.”
“We need to cleanse the party.”
“We can’t have our people ’obnobbing with the upper-classes.”
“We must be vigilant!”
Thomson had made sure Barnes Wallis’s name was included on the guest list and had briefed MacDonald. He was keeping an eye on the door.
If only Marthe were here. I could confide in her. She understands the common people so well. She has those peasants in her village eating out of her hand. She’d love this place and my goodness, what a hit she’d be—even with this surly bunch!
He put Marthe out of his mind as a man stepped into the Stone Hall just inside the entrance vestibule.
This could be him.
The man took off his black overcoat and handed it to one of the servants, who brushed snow from its shoulders, before taking it to the cloakroom. Dressed in a grey suit and a somber blue tie, he walked into the room, as though stepping into a minefield. His name was boldly announced. “Mr. Barnes Wallis of the Vickers Aircraft Company, Prime Minister!” All eyes fell on Wallis as if he were Satan, himself. Wallis showed no reaction.
“Ah, yes, we’ve been expecting you, sir. I know Lord Thomson here has been looking forward to your visit,” MacDonald said, glancing at Thomson who studied Wallis intently. He was thirty-seven, average height and build, possessed a stony face and expressionless, steely blue eyes; eyes that revealed nothing, but which seemed to take in everything in one sweep with camera-like precision, to file away. His stern demeanor and full head of prematurely graying hair, made Wallis appear older than his years and formidable.
A man easily under-estimated. A good poker player, no doubt.
“Thank you, Prime Minister, and congratulations to you,” Wallis said, with calm assurance. His grey suit was a metaphor for his personality—blending in without calling attention—but it did call attention, since every man in the room was dressed in black.
Maybe he’s making a statement—not one to run with the herd!
&nb
sp; Thomson stepped forward, hand outstretched. Wallis’s hand was more delicate than his own—more like that of a violinist—but his handshake was firm enough. “I’m honored to meet you, Wallis. We’ve heard so much about you. Come let me introduce you to everybody, then I’d like to show you the house.”
After presenting Wallis to Ishbel, Thomson led him around the room, introducing him. For a rag-tag bunch of rabble rousers, the guests were well turned out, Thomson thought. Not in every case, but generally he was impressed. Women were adorned in the latest fashions of delicate silks and colorful fabrics, loose fitting at the waist, some short at the knee, others to the ankle. The men wore tuxedoes or lounge suits.
These people have gone into debt to be here today.
Thomson knew how that went. The group included government civil servants, party members, party workers and hangers-on, along with several balding trade union bosses from the docks, mines and transportation industries, wearing steel rimmed spectacles. Thomson called them ‘Lenin-look-alikes.’
Thomson cast his eye across the room. He’d done his homework memorizing the names of everyone on the guest list, positions held, names of their wives, children and girlfriends. Through research he’d learned of their ambitions and hobbies. After spending a polite and reasonable amount of time on pleasantries, Thomson led Wallis up the staircase to the gallery overlooking the Great Hall.
“This building is a special place,” he began. “Only two other Prime Ministers have resided here—usually at weekends—Baldwin, and before him, Lloyd George, of course. And now here we are.”
The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue. Page 12