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

by David Dennington

  Further back in the van a larger object stood covered with another sheet, which John removed, revealing a brand new piano.

  Charlotte’s eyes lit up. “Oh, John! I don’t believe it!”

  “I took the other one back to your parents. Now you’ve one of your own,” John said.

  The six men carefully eased the piano down into the road. Charlotte lifted the lid and with one finger tinkled “Blue Skies”.

  “Grey skies—let’s hope they’ve all gone,” John sang.

  “Do you play, Charlotte?” Freddie asked.

  “Does she play!” John said.

  John climbed back into the van and held up the cat in her cage. Fluffy let out a loud meow. “And last but not least, here’s our Miss Fluffy!”

  They spent the next couple of hours bringing in boxes and furniture and setting it up under Charlotte’s direction. Finally, they sat down in the living room for tea and sandwiches brought in by Mrs. Jones from next door. Afterwards, Charlotte tried out her new piano which, after her mother’s, sounded sweet indeed.

  The house was beginning to look more like a home, Charlotte pleased to have her things around her. As for the piano—it took her breath away. Before everyone from Cardington left, Charlotte asked them round for Sunday afternoon tea with their wives and girlfriends. John stayed for a couple more hours chatting. Charlotte hugged him tightly and thanked him before he headed back up north. She thought things mightn’t be so bad—she’d met some nice folks and they were finally free of Jessup.

  The following weekend, Potter brought an army of fifteen men to the house and they painted the interior white from top to bottom. Charlotte plied them with tea and sandwiches while they worked and Lou provided paint, paintbrushes and beer. By Sunday evening, the house gleamed and smelled of fresh paint. Charlotte was delighted.

  A week later, her upbeat mood was soured again. Lou learned that Jessup, at his own request, had been posted to Cardington for training, along with two greasy cohorts. They’d rented a place in Bedford. Lou didn’t expect trouble and wasn’t unduly worried. Charlotte was skeptical; the beating might have made him worse. She knew the people of Ackworth would be pleased to see the back of him.

  26

  VICEROY TO INDIA

  June 1929.

  The mood in Britain during the early months of 1929 was bleak. With the General Strike not long over, unemployment and living standards worsening and the government’s popularity plummeting, a general election became inevitable.

  Labour won the most seats, with 287 against the Conservatives’ 260, but still lacked a majority to form a government. The leader of the Liberal Party, Lloyd-George, whose party had won 59 seats, threw his lot in with MacDonald and Labour took over on June 5th. Just prior to taking office, Thomson was summoned to Lossiemouth. During their last few days of solitude, he and MacDonald made plans and chose cabinet members and staff for the new government. Thomson would be back at the Air Ministry.

  MacDonald and Thomson also had the sad task of finding a new pilot to fly them back and forth to Lossiemouth. Captain Hinchliffe had gone off in a bid to fly the Atlantic from east to west, in an attempt to seize the record, as many others had previously tried (and failed) to do. Neither he nor his copilot had been heard from since—at least not in the flesh.

  Thomson felt a little guilty, but he really had done all he could after receiving an urgent call from Hinchliffe, pleading for help. He and his heiress copilot were being evicted from Cranwell Aerodrome, their base of operations, due to strings being pulled by powerful people. Thomson had called his friend, the previous Air Minister, Sir Samuel Hoare, for assistance.

  In an effort to save his daughter’s life, the copilot’s father had already spoken with Sir Samuel and got the eviction notice served. Sir Samuel told Thomson there was no way he’d intervene. Sadly, their eviction deadline, instead of causing the pioneer aviators to give up, pushed them into flying off prematurely into a horrendous storm.

  At the beginning of June, Thomson moved back into Gwydyr House and MacDonald moved his staff and his furnishings into No.10 Downing Street, this time with the intention of a longer stay. To Thomson’s delight, McDonald also took up residence at Chequers at weekends, as before.

  During a visit to No.10, Thomson received a surprise. Thinking he’d been called in to discuss policy, he stood at the window overlooking the colorful rear gardens, while MacDonald sat musing behind his desk. Unlike Thomson’s last visit to this room, it was orderly, with pictures of MacDonald’s family and Highland landscapes adorning the walls—no unpacked boxes lying around. Thomson’s head was full of thoughts concerning the airship program, but while he spoke, MacDonald’s mind appeared to be elsewhere.

  “How I love this room, Ramsay—it’s the heart and soul of the

  Empire, you know.”

  MacDonald remained silent. Thomson continued. “I’m planning a trip to Cardington next week. I can’t wait to see what progress they’ve made. We have to get those intercontinental voyages organized. There’ll be lots to do in those far off lands to prepare for our mighty ships. The schedules have slipped badly—I need to get things back on track.”

  MacDonald remained silent. Thomson turned back to the window and studied the lush green lawns. Several minutes later, MacDonald spoke.

  “The post of Viceroy to India will be vacant soon. I need to make a nomination to the King to fill that position.”

  “Yes, that’s important. Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “Yes”

  “Who?”

  “You!”

  Thomson hadn’t seen this coming. His mind went into a turmoil.

  “Ramsay, that’s impossible! The airship program will be in full swing. And if I’m gone, who will watch your back? Those jackals on the left will run amuck!”

  “True, CB, but I’ll manage. And my dear fellow, what could be more fitting than for you to return to the land of your birth as viceroy? Why, you’d be King of India and Marthe, your queen!”

  This came like a hammer-blow. Thomson suddenly had a throbbing headache and put his hand to his temple. A spontaneous vision exploded in his mind.

  He stood on a balcony dressed in a magnificent black tuxedo, vivid blue sash across his chest, Marthe at his side in a flowing silver gown, a diamond tiara upon her head. They waved to adoring crowds below, flanked by elephants and a sea of Indian soldiers in dazzling red uniforms under a dusty, orange sun …

  “Ramsay, I beg you not to say such things. That couldn’t happen, at least, not as long as her husband’s alive—and no doubt he’ll outlive me.”

  Ramsay is like a brother who wants the best for me.

  MacDonald’s knowing blue eyes twinkled.

  “My dear CB, as viceroy, you’ll lay the crown at her feet. Nothing will be refused you. Rome would almost certainly grant an annulment.”

  “I seriously doubt that, after all these years. She was fifteen when she was married off and they have a child! It’s true they aren’t married in the real sense of the word …”

  “Well, there you are then!”

  “You fill my head with things I dare not even dream about.”

  This wasn’t true, of course. It was all he dreamed about.

  “Marthe is a strict Catholic. She has a priest who’s been her spiritual advisor since she was a girl in Paris,” Thomson said. “He knows about me—in fact, I’ve met him. He always advises her against divorce.”

  “Then you will need to be more forceful, won’t you. It’s usual for a viceroy to be married. There’ll be ceremonial duties for his wife to perform. Look, you’re getting on in years. You deserve some real happiness. You’ll have much to offer. This could be the chance of a lifetime, CB. Think about that.”

  Charlotte surprised herself, settling in rapidly. They had lots of Cardington folks around on Saturday and Sunday afternoons for tea. After the third week, they had a housewarming party with many of the crewmen and some officers and their wives or girlfriends, including Pott
er, Binks, Freddie, Church, Disley, Cameron and Leech. Capt. Irwin and Olivia and First Officer Atherstone and his wife showed up and stayed for a couple of hours.

  At these little soirées, Charlotte usually gave Freddie something to wear, which she’d bought in Bedford—a pair of second-hand shoes or a sweater, or something Lou didn’t wear anymore—a shirt or a pair of trousers (after she’d made alterations). Freddie was grateful and came to adore Charlotte. His face would light up whenever she entered the room.

  Charlotte had been to the music shop in Bedford and picked up a few songs in sheet music and practiced them when Lou was at work as a surprise for him. He loved to hear her play the classics, which she did rarely. Everyone fell for Charlotte, especially men; besides being beautiful, she was a good listener and easy to talk to. After coaxing, Charlotte played the piano, sometimes with Potter on the accordion and Lou on guitar. Everyone gathered round and sang the latest hits. As usual at these gatherings, Disley sat in a corner quietly playing chess with challengers. Church dazzled the crowd by rolling pennies over his knuckles, performing card tricks and cutting and shuffling like a pro. Toward the end of the evening, he invariably managed to talk a few into a bait-and-switch bet or a game of brag, during which time he was heard to mutter, ‘Oh, bad luck, mate,’ as he pulled his winnings across the table.

  Binks, as it turned out, was an accomplished artist. He usually brought a sketch pad and sat making pencil sketches and portraits of anyone who cared to sit for him. Lou was surprised by his quiet talent. Many, including Lou and Charlotte, had them framed.

  He did one of Lou and two of Charlotte: Lou the flying ace in his navy cap and leather greatcoat, collar up, an airship in the sky behind him; Charlotte, a short-haired, ravishing twenties flapper, in a tight-fitting, black, knee-length dress, a silver beaded necklace down to the waist. She stood beside a grand piano, long cigarette holder in one hand, champagne glass in the other. In a close-up, Binks showed Charlotte again with short hair under a sequined, beaded skull cap, huge eyes wide, her sensuous, full-lipped mouth and gorgeous smile, stunning—a movie star! That portrait caused quite a stir.

  During the week, Lou had homework in the evenings. He reviewed drawings and new operating manuals for Cardington R101. Sometimes, he worked on a navigation course under the tutelage of Squadron Leader Ernest Johnston, who also attended their parties with his wife. Johnston, the most highly experienced navigator in the country, had made many landmark flights around the world and would serve as navigator for both ships. Lou got a kick out of Johnston—he was a hell of a wag.

  Now he was based at Cardington, it became necessary for Lou to travel to Howden once a month. He was still responsible for ensuring documentation and as-built drawings for the Howden ship were updated and filed correctly. Lou would also be required to assist Wallis and Norway with not only the installation of the gasbags, but also with the engine trials in the shed—a subject he never dared discuss with Charlotte.

  During the first week at Cardington, Lou sat down with Colmore and Scott a couple of times and once with Richmond. Richmond appeared to be in a more anxious state than when he’d last seen him. Lou couldn’t understand why Cardington was so worried about the schedule. Richmond had said ‘time was on their side.’

  It became apparent that there were two factors pressuring Cardington. The first was the Germans: the Graf Zeppelin had made a successful maiden voyage to Lakehurst from Friedrichshafen in October and a round-the-world trip was scheduled in August via Russia, Tokyo and San Francisco. The second was Thomson: he was back at the Air Ministry and had let his displeasure over the slow progress of the airship program be known. He’d soon be here to assess the situation for himself. Cardington was filled with dread. In him, they began to sense a hard taskmaster who’d be on the warpath. They couldn’t say this with certainty, since he’d been ousted in October 1924 before they’d built anything, but here they were in 1929, still fiddling around in the shed—at least, that’s how they thought he’d perceive things. On the bright side though, Howden was no further along—or so it seemed.

  On the day before Thomson’s planned visit, Lou realized there was a third factor upsetting Cardington, more troubling than the other two. He went to Richmond’s office to discuss matters concerning Shed No. 2 where Howden R100 would be housed after her arrival later in the year. When he walked in, Richmond and Rope were huddled over Richmond’s drawing board deep in conversation. Lou raised his hand and backed away, as if to leave.

  Richmond looked up. “No, come in Lieutenant Remington. You’re just as much a part of this team as anyone. We keep nothing from you.”

  This surprised Lou. “Okay, sir,” he said and joined them.

  “We’re discussing her weight. We’ve done separate final calculations. After 20 tons for crew, ballast and stores, we only have 13 tons left for lift, d’you agree, Rope?”

  “Yes, my figures agree,” Rope said.

  “Bugger! We should have built her another bay longer. We had plenty of room in the shed,” Richmond exclaimed. He walked to the window scratching his head. “We’ve known for a long time she was coming out heavy.”

  I figured that’s why you’ve become so stressed.

  “Any suggestions, Remington?” Richmond asked.

  “Lighten her, sir, and increase her lift,” Lou replied.

  “Quite. Quite.” Richmond stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to look nonchalant. “Let’s deal with the Air Minister’s visit first. I won’t dwell on the weight issue. I’ll have to touch on the subject, of course. When he’s gone, we’ll give the subject our full attention. In the meantime, we’ll keep it right here,” Richmond said, looking from Lou to Rope.

  “Absolutely, sir,” Lou said, realizing why he’d been invited in.

  “I’m sure these problems can be overcome,” Rope said.

  Lou glanced at Rope.

  He looks confident enough.

  27

  THE FISHING PARTY

  June 19, 1929.

  The bedroom was dark, Charlotte sound asleep. Lou slid out of bed noiselessly and, taking his clothes with him, went down to the kitchen. He dressed while his coffee was brewing. After munching on a couple of slices of toast, Lou returned to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe door. His fishing rod was in the back corner for some silly reason. Wishing he’d retrieved it the night before, he leaned in and pulled it out. In the half-light, Charlotte raised her head from the pillow.

  “Lou?”

  “It’s all right, love.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m meeting some of the guys. I promised I’d go fishing with them before going up to the shed,” he whispered.

  ‘What time will you be back?”

  “About five.”

  “Five!”

  “The Old Man’s coming up from London. Everything’s got to be perfect.”

  “Damn it, Lou, it’s Saturday! I wanted us to spend the day together.”

  “We’ll be together tomorrow, Charlie. I’m sorry; I can’t help it.”

  Charlotte rolled onto her back, her hair spread across the pillow like a mane.

  “Come back to bed for half an hour. I need you, love.”

  “I can’t. The guys are waiting for me, honey.”

  “I suppose tomorrow you’ll be studying, or fiddling with your damned motorbike.”

  “I mentioned in the week he was coming. You forgot.”

  Lou leaned over her to kiss her, but she rolled back on her side with a sigh, her hair cascading across her face. Lou went downstairs, put on his short black coat and went down to the motorbike. He strapped on his fishing rod, kick-started it and drove off sleepily toward the parade of shops where the ‘boys’ were waiting outside the corner store.

  At St. Pancras Railway Station in London, Thomson marched down the platform, a walking stick hooked over his arm. This added accoutrement lent a certain gravitas. He was flanked by the two men closest to him at the Ministry. All three wore raincoats and hat
s. The air was chilly, but the morning sunshine streamed through the roof skylights, brightly lighting the station. The first man, Sefton Brancker, a staunch friend, had done much to help Thomson and further his career. It was he who, in those lean years of ‘21 and ’22, had introduced him to people connected with aviation and was influential in him getting a seat on the Airships Advisory Panel. And during his time out of office, it’d been Brancker who’d arranged for Thomson to go on lecture tours throughout Canada and the United States, boosting Thomson’s income. Thomson had been immensely grateful. He owed much to Brancker.

  Brancker’s looks were sometimes deceiving. In his early fifties and of average height, he appeared unkempt and ill-bred in rough tweed jackets—almost like a farm laborer. Though he seemed slack-jawed, his voice was rich and deep and he spoke the most beautiful King’s English, as only the most well-bred could. To cover his baldness, he wore a toupée. He loved the ladies and they loved him—and his rakish mustache. They adored his vibrant personality and infectious enthusiasm, and the pains he took with them. He had an aura of self assurance and power. For Brancker’s friends, nothing was ever too much trouble, especially if it enhanced the cause of aviation—his other great passion. Thomson liked having him around because he was such a positive force. At Gwydyr House, Brancker occupied the large office above his own.

  Thomson’s second companion was his personal secretary, Rupert Knoxwood, a tall, wiry fellow who had difficulty pronouncing his ‘Rs’, making him sound foppish when saying words like ‘fwankly’ or ‘fwightfully’, which he insisted on using. To Thomson, he was the consummate bureaucrat who understood him perfectly, anticipating his every need. As the three men strode down the station, Thomson spotted a uniformed railwayman heading in their direction. Thomson gazed at him, smiling like an old friend.