Lou coordinated between Cardington, Vickers at Westminster (where Wallis was presently based), Yorkshire County and many contractors. A crew of twenty men came up from London to make the shed watertight; thousands of sheets of corrugated iron cladding had rusted or become loose and in need of replacement. Lou also organized local contractors to complete the renovation of the brick-built offices located inside, down one side of the shed. He put these same companies to work restoring the twenty bungalows situated along the boundary of the aerodrome. These would be home to design and engineering staff, including Wallis and Burney and their families.
For Lou and Charlotte, this was the happiest period of their lives. Sometimes, if Charlotte wasn’t working, Lou dropped by the cottage for lunch, or Charlotte came by the caravan on the bus. The work crews were pleasant and everyone was on familiar terms.
One time, Charlotte came by the caravan with Lou’s lunch and it turned into a passionate exchange. The caravan shook and rocked, squeaking on its chassis and Charlotte cried out. Afterwards, they lay in the bunk exhausted. Some time passed before they registered the knocking. Lou scrambled to make himself respectable and went to the door, red-faced and embarrassed. A delivery truck driver stood outside. He took off his cap and gave Lou a knowing smile.
“I was just taking a nap,” Lou said.
“Sorry to disturb you, gov.’ I ‘spect you was ’avin a bad dream,” the driver said.
“Er, well …”
“Got a load of timber ’ere. Where d’yer want it?”
Lou came out of the caravan and pointed to the shed doors.
“Drive inside the shed and find a dry spot.”
The driver hesitated a moment. “Er, you might like to know, sir, there was a bloke ’ere, right ’ere, looking in the window of your caravan. When he saw me, he scarpered right quick.”
“What’d he look like?”
“A lot like you, actually. Same height, same build, ‘cept he was an ugly, mean-looking sod with thick greasy ’air and a scar on his face like you—blimey you could be twins!”
“Where’d he go?”
“In them woods over yonder. He must’ve been on a motorbike. I heard it start up and drive off down the trail.”
“Thanks, I’ll be on the lookout.”
Lou went back inside the caravan, but said nothing to Charlotte about the ‘peeping Tom.’ Later, he asked the workmen if they’d seen anyone lurking around. They told him they’d noticed a man at the edge of the wood staring at the caravan once or twice, but thought he might be someone looking for work.
In July, trouble was brewing in London for Thomson and the Labour Government, but he failed to appreciate its seriousness. Since Labour didn’t have a majority, it was difficult for the more radical social issues to be moved forward, but MacDonald’s bill promoting the construction of ‘council housing’ passed through the House without fuss.
With Thomson acting as his confidante and council, MacDonald put much energy into international affairs in his role as Foreign Secretary in addition to being Prime Minister. He did his best to repair damage done by the Treaty of Versailles, tackling reparations issues and shaping agreeable terms with Germany concerning the French occupation of the Rhur—actions some saw as appeasement. The ‘London Settlement’ was signed and an Anglo-German Commercial Treaty put into effect. MacDonald’s main goal was the disarmament of Europe and though noble, it was not one Germany would later share.
As soon as he’d assumed office, MacDonald set about normalizing relations with the Russian revolutionaries. On February 1st, the government recognized the Soviet Union and negotiated a treaty guaranteeing loans to the Bolsheviks. Large segments of the public, previously willing to give MacDonald the benefit of the doubt, became suspicious, believing him to be a communist after all. These treaties were unpopular, not only with Conservatives, but with Liberals who shored up his hold on power.
Another nail in the coffin came in July when J.R. Campbell, the communist editor of the Worker’s Weekly, wrote a highly inflammatory article. Thomson went to No. 10 Downing Street to discuss the matter with MacDonald. He’d heard about the article, but paid little attention to it. These were people out on the fringe—every country had them. Thomson entered the Prime Minister’s study overlooking the gardens. A small, mahogany desk and a couple of chairs had been placed in the room, which was otherwise bare; there were no photographs of MacDonald’s family on the walls, no pictures. MacDonald looked up from his desk while Thomson stared at the boxes stacked around the walls.
“Good morning, Ramsay.”
“Don’t bother looking at all that, CB. It’s hardly worth unpacking.”
“Why not?”
“I expect you’ve read this rubbish?” MacDonald said, pointing at a copy of Worker’s Weekly on the desk.
“No, but I heard the rumpus.”
Thomson picked up the paper and scanned it quickly, reading aloud.
“ ‘Open letter to our Fighting Forces. Comrades:’”
Thomson looked up at MacDonald. “That’s a good start!”
“‘You never joined the army because you were in love with war … In most cases you were compelled by poverty or misery of unemployment … when war is declared you are expected to kill the enemy. The enemy are working people just like you, living in slavery … So, I say soldiers, sailors, airmen, flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone—The Communist Party calls on you to let it be known, in war, be it class war or military war, you will not turn your guns on your fellow workers, but will instead, line up with your comrades and attack the exploiters and capitalists. Refuse to fight for profits! Turn your weapons on your oppressors!’”
Thomson’s jaw dropped. “He’s telling them to shoot their officers!”
“The Attorney General has announced that this editor and some of his cronies are to be prosecuted under the Incitement to Mutiny Act of 1797. We’re under tremendous pressure from our backbenchers to put a stop to legal action against these fools. What’s your opinion?” MacDonald asked.
“If you let the prosecution go ahead, we’ll have rebellion in the party. Me personally, I think these people should go to prison, or be shot. This is treason, no question. If you quash this, there’ll be hell to pay from Conservatives and Liberals. We’ll be finished,” Thomson replied. He suddenly thought of Marthe and his hopes for the future. He put his hand to his head.
Damn! Things had started off so well.
“Point is, CB, these are just a bunch of silly fools no one’s listening to. The more fuss we make, the more we empower them.”
“You and I know that, Ramsay, but some people are up in arms. I’d hate to see them get away with this. If they’d been in my regiment, they would’ve been executed.”
“But they’re not in your regiment, CB.”
“More’s the pity.”
“There was a time when you would’ve had to shoot me, too!”
“I suppose so.”
“The people pressuring me are the ones who have supported me from the beginning. I cannot desert them now.”
Thomson got up to leave. “You must do as your conscience dictates, Ramsay. Whatever you decide, naturally, I’ll support you without reservation.”
“I’ll need time to think,” MacDonald said. “Come back tomorrow morning.”
Thomson descended the imposing staircase troubled and disappointed.
Life knocks you down—just when things couldn’t be better.
Re-commissioning progressed well at Howden. Another crew was sent from the south to refurbish the hydrogen plant and would finish next spring. Inside the shed, contractors rewired the offices and made general repairs while others worked on the bungalows.
Lou started making his monthly visits to Cardington as required. He reported on expenditures and submitted budgets for renovations. Fifty thousand pounds was a lot of money and the Air Ministry was anxious the budget wasn’t exceeded. While in Cardington, Lou saw no progress at all and was told that team was workin
g furiously on revolutionary ‘state of the art’ designs. The Air Ministry gave the press the same story. Articles were published regularly in glowing terms, describing what the public could expect to see rolling out from the Cardington shed in the future—marvels designed by geniuses. By comparison, Howden R100 was rarely mentioned. That suited Wallis.
Thomson returned to No.10 Downing Street the following morning. MacDonald looked grave and got to the point as Thomson sat down.
“I’ve decided to drop the prosecution of the editor.”
“I see,” Thomson said, trying his damnedest to hide his disappointment.
“With our friendly attitude toward the Soviets on trade and now this, we’ll be up against severe criticism. They’re saying the party is under the control of the radical Left,” MacDonald said.
“Yes, they are.”
“In any case, I’m not going to allow these people to be put on trial.”
Thomson appeared skeptical. “They’re talking about a motion of no confidence.”
“Yes, I know—but I think we can weather the storm. I believe the British people know we’re their best hope. I’ll announce my decision in the House next week.”
Surely, a baby must come soon!
That would make everything perfect. Charlotte continued making baby clothes and wrapping and folding them neatly in the chest of drawers in the bedroom. She daren’t think about the airship and its completion.
That’s years down the road.
Charlotte’s friend Fanny had become a frequent visitor to the cottage. When off duty, she came during the week while Billy was at school and Lenny was at the saw-mill in Hull. Some Sundays, Fanny’s family, the Bunyans, came over for tea and the boy made a big fuss of Fluffy. Billy, now thirteen, idolized Lou and they often played football in the garden, while Lenny leaned on the damp, stone wall smoking Woodbines. Fanny knew Charlotte was mad for a child and constantly gave her advice.
“God will make you pregnant when He’s good and ready. Don’t be in such a rush, love,” Fanny would say. And then laughing, “Meanwhile, enjoy all that good lovin’!” But this didn’t satisfy Charlotte’s obsessive longing.
In August, the Prime Minister announced charges against the editor of the communist Worker’s Weekly would be dropped. A storm of outrage, both in the House and in the press, erupted immediately. The Conservatives entered a censure motion while Liberals entered an amendment of their own. These motions were put to a vote of “no confidence” which carried, and Parliament was dissolved. A general election was set for October 29.
In September, while Charlotte was doing housework, Fanny arrived at the cottage, rapping furiously on the front door. Charlotte answered, carrying her dusting pan and brush. Fanny rushed in, in great distress.
“Oh, Charlotte. Have you heard?”
“What’s happened, Fanny?” Charlotte asked with growing panic.
“The Shenandoah’s gone down in America. The BBC announced it.”
“Oh, no.” Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. “Josh is on that ship.”
“Yes, I know, love. That’s why I came straight here.”
Charlotte threw the dusting pan and brush at the wall. “Damn, damn, damn! I hate bloody airships!”
Charlotte and Fanny spent the rest of the afternoon sobbing in between cups of tea—the English cure-all—until Fanny had to leave.
When Lou arrived, he’d obviously heard the news.
“Was Josh on the ship?”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte screwed up her eyes and her tears flowed again. Lou slumped down onto the couch, his head in his hands. “I knew three of the others, too. Fourteen were killed. I called the Washington Navy Yard and got the full story. They were on their way from Lakehurst to Ohio. The ship broke up in a storm.”
“Oh Lou, I’m so sorry. I know they were your mates, love.”
“Josh said he was golden,” Lou said, bitterly.
“He was such a lovely fella.”
Lou didn’t speak for some time. “It’s amazing—twenty nine actually survived. I served under Landsdowne for a short time. He died, too.”
“Major Scott will be upset,” Charlotte said. “He’ll be drowning his sorrows I expect.”
Charlotte spoke no more about it, but all her fears had been re-awakened with a vengeance. It was a sleepless night.
They all die someday, Charlotte.
A cloud of grief hung over the Howden shed. They were all brothers, these airshipmen. Lou knew this had come as a severe blow to Charlotte, jarring her out of the vacuum. But there were no more explosions or hysteria, just a tacit agreement never to mention the Shenandoah again.
The election campaign was spirited and MacDonald believed Labour would pull it off. However, another issue reared up, complicating matters further. Thomson was summoned to Chequers. And so, on a damp autumnal morning in October, while mist rolled across the Berkshire Downs, Thomson was driven up the gravel drive. He entered the Prime Minister’s study, a comfortable room lined with leather-bound books and ticking clocks. MacDonald sat looking out the window into the mist. He turned on hearing Thomson enter.
“Ah, CB, thank you for coming. More problems, I’m afraid. The foreign office received a letter addressed to the Central Committee of the British Communist Party purported to have been sent by a Mr. Zinoviev.
“Who the hell’s he?”
“A Bolshevik revolutionary in the Communist Party in Moscow. He's calling for agitation in Britain.”
“You mean revolution?”
“Yes. In concert with the Bolsheviks, promoting Leninism in England and the colonies.”
“Damn these people!”
“It's probably a forgery perpetrated by the Tories, or the White Russian intelligence, or both.”
“This couldn’t have come at a worse time,” Thomson said.
“This is no accident,” MacDonald said.
“When was it written?”
“It’s dated September 15th. Received by the Foreign Office October 10th.’’
“If this gets out …”
“Oh, it will get out. I’m sure the newspapers already have a copy of this letter.”
“Surely they won’t publish it, if it’s a forgery?”
“CB—don’t be naïve! Of course they’ll publish it! I’ve sent a letter of protest to the government in Moscow. I intend to beat the conservative newspapers to the punch and make an announcement to the House and the press exposing the matter, with a copy of my letter. With luck, this’ll blow up in their faces and help us in next week’s elections.”
Thomson puffed up his cheeks and blew the pent up air from his
lungs. It’d be close. “When are you going to do this, Ramsay?”
“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Thomson returned to Ashley Gardens.
The next morning he sat at his dining table while Gwen served him scrambled eggs on toast. She brought the newspapers to the table. By her expression, she’d already caught the Daily Mail headline. Thomson held it up, hardly believing his eyes.
LETTER FROM RUSSIAN COMMUNIST PARTY PRESIDENT ENCOURAGES BOLSHEVIC REVOLUTION IN BRITAIN & COLONIES
A letter has come into this newspaper’s hands which is purported to have been written by the president of the Russian Communist International, Mr. Grigory Zinoviev, a radical Bolshevik revolutionary …
Thomson scanned the article, laid down the paper and put his hands to his head.
Damn! It’s all over!
He called to the housekeeper, who'd made herself scarce.
“Gwen, I’m leaving. I’ll be at No.10.”
“What about your breakfast, sir? You’ve hardly eaten anything!”
“No time,” Thomson said, dashing out the door.
And I don’t have any appetite now!
At No.10 there was an atmosphere of panic. An usher waved Thomson to go up. He bounded up the stairs and kno
cked on the Prime Minister’s door.
“Come in,” MacDonald’s dull voice replied from within.
“Ramsay …”
“Yes, yes, yes. They beat us to it.”
“Now what do we do?”
“Our chances are slim to none. We’ll make the case it’s a forgery and a conspiracy, but with four days to go, it’s unlikely we’ll convince anyone. The Foreign Office thinks the damned thing’s genuine.”
“Who leaked it?”
“It really doesn’t matter, CB.”
The day after the elections Thomson went to Chequers to help MacDonald collect his belongings and enjoy the place for a couple of hours before Baldwin’s people arrived. They took coffee in the Great Hall and sat analyzing the election results. The Conservatives had won a stunning victory, gaining 155 seats, giving them a total of 413. The liberals had been crushed, with the number of seats held slashed from 158 to 40. MacDonald thought, overall, Labour hadn’t done badly, losing 40 seats, holding on to 151.
“I’d hoped we’d hang on, but it wasn’t to be, laddie.”
“What will you do now?” Thomson asked.
“I’m going to fly up to Lossie and do a lot of walking, golfing, fishing, thinking and writing. I’m gonna be planning our future! Why don’t you come?”
“Good idea.”
“We’ll fly with my new pilot—chap named Hinchliffe.”
The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue. Page 17