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

by David Dennington

  ‘Bitter Sweet.’ How appropriate.

  If only he were able to freeze these moments and relish them over and over. “I dreamed about you again the other night, Marthe.”

  “And what did you dream this time?” she said with a teasing smile.

  “The same dream. You are as lovely tonight as the first time I saw you on Rue de Rivoli in that fine, white carriage. You’re the girl in my dream.”

  “And what year was that?” she said with an artful stare.

  “1902.”

  “My dear Kit, I’ve told you a dozen times. That girl wasn’t me. I would’ve only been fourteen!”

  Thomson knew this wasn’t an excuse, but didn’t argue. “Then you more than fulfill that vision of beauty I’ve carried with me all these years, dear heart.”

  He held her hand throughout the evening and they enjoyed the play like a tender, young couple. On arrival back at The Ritz, Marthe said she was tired and after escorting her to her suite, Thomson left. It’d been an enchanting evening, though frustrating. He’d need to exercise patience.

  The next day, Thomson took Marthe to Wimbledon for the ladies’ finals. They watched Helen Wills Moody beat Helen Jacobs in two sets. Their arrival had created mild interest. People suspected they were ‘somebody,’ but not sure who. Tennis bored him. Heads turned back and forth like a thousand metronomes, but not Thomson’s. Only Marthe was on his mind. He stole discreet looks at her throughout the afternoon.

  The following day, they drove to Heston Aerodrome where they watched sky racing around pylons. This was one of Marthe’s husband’s favorite pastimes. Thomson studied her reaction feeling a stab of jealousy. She obviously found it exciting, spending much of the time on her feet. At the end of the races, Thomson presented silver cups to the winners.

  They spent the next few days visiting and dining with friends at their country estates. Marthe was wonderful to be with on these occasions and Thomson was happy, except for the gnawing deep inside that grew painful as time wore on—she’d soon be gone. One sunny afternoon, Thomson took Marthe to visit his chambers in the House of Lords and to pick up his dispatches. He’d taken her to the main chamber before, but now he had his own office. The room was ornate, smelling of wood and leather—‘wonderfully masculine,’ she told him.

  Marthe kicked off her shoes and sank into a leather armchair opposite his desk, curling up like a kitten, delighting him. After studying the surroundings, she stared at him coquettishly while, like a schoolmaster, he studied his papers through half spectacles.

  “Look at you, Kit. Lord Thomson of Cardington, Minister of State—so aristocratic, so royal!” she said.

  “Splendidly put, my dear princess.”

  “All those years ago in Romania, who could’ve pictured this?”

  Thomson got up from his chair.

  “Come, let’s walk to the lake. The ducks are waiting.”

  Thomson had bread in his pocket; he’d made sure Gwen put some in a bag. He’d planned this stroll in the park for weeks and waited for a beautiful afternoon. He felt certain this was the right moment. They left the House of Lords. Thomson was unable to resist taking Marthe through Westminster Hall, forming part of the Palace of Westminster, on the way.

  Their footsteps echoed across stone paving in the cavernous building. Thomson always waxed poetic here, seeming to have a spiritual connection with the place.

  “Do you know this is my most favorite Gothic room in all England, Marthe?” he said, staring up at the massive wooden roof beams which rested on stone abutments.

  “I should, Kit. You tell me each time we pass through it!”

  “This is where they tried King Charles the First,” he said. He’d told her this many times over the years. In his mind he was now back in January of 1649. “You can just see it, can’t you, Marthe? King Charles standing there on a platform, his once pristine white, ruffled shirt, scruffy and dirty, his head held high, despite being tried by a filthy mob led by that scoundrel, Oliver Cromwell, thirsting for his blood—and his throne.” Thomson waved his arms grandly. He sensed the crowd around them and now so did Marthe. She became distraught.

  “Before they dragged him away and chopped off the poor man’s head! Oh Kit, this place gives me the chills. It reeks of death and despair. Let’s get out of here!”

  Thomson was surprised—she hadn’t acted this way before, but she was right. No question, this place carried an aura of death. They stepped out into the sunshine to stroll arm in arm, enjoying each other’s company. On reaching the Horse Guards Parade, they crossed the road and admired the two mounted guardsmen in gleaming, thigh-length, black boots, crimson coats and black capes that fell across their horses’ backs.

  Marthe made a fuss of the horses before they ambled into the cobblestone yard and across the gravel parade ground toward St. James’s Park, where indeed, the ducks were waiting. Thomson fished around in his pocket for the brown bag of bread while the ducks watched in anticipation. Together, Thomson and Marthe threw bread into the pond and the splashing birds fought noisily for it. They chatted idly until the bread was gone. When calm was restored on the water and the greedy ducks had disbursed, Thomson became serious. The moment had come.

  “Marthe, I have something to tell you which is very hush-hush.”

  “What is it, Kit?” Marthe asked, alarmed.

  “Ramsay is going to put my name forward to the King for consideration for the post of Viceroy to India. Most likely, I’ll be offered the job.”

  “Oh Kit, that’s wonderful! I am so proud of you. Congratulations.” she said, kissing his cheek.

  Thomson was disappointed at Marthe’s reaction. Unless …

  “Perhaps he’s asking rather a lot of … us … Don’t you think?”

  “What’s the difference? I can always visit you in India,” she said, with an encouraging smile. “That would be rather fun.” She was too flippant.

  “I thought this might be an opportunity for us to be together … perhaps … permanently.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I thought maybe we might … marry.”

  “But you know I’m already married.”

  That was cold and sarcastic, not the reaction he’d hoped for.

  He plunged on. “In my position, I think we’d get Rome’s blessing.”

  “Romes blessing? For what?”

  “An annulment.”

  “I’m married because I choose to be married. In my position, even an annulment wouldn’t be acceptable to society—I’d become an outcast!”

  “Marthe, you cannot live your whole life just to please society.”

  “I live my life the way I choose to live it,” Marthe snapped.

  “How can you go on being married to a man who doesn’t love you?”

  “This may sound strange, but he does love me—in his own way.”

  “You lead separate lives. He has a mistress whom you tolerate.”

  “I’d do nothing to hurt or embarrass him. He’s like a brother to me.”

  “And I want to be a husband to you!”

  “Look, I don’t blame him—and what’s more, neither will you.”

  “I’m not blaming anyone. I’m simply asking you to end this arrangement and enter a normal loving marriage with me.”

  “Enough!” Marthe cried.

  Totally deflated, Thomson stared across the pond, and after a long pause, spoke softly. “Marthe, I’ve waited fifteen long years … and now, perhaps, we have the opportunity.”

  Marthe was silent. Thomson sensed her pondering the possibilities, perhaps for the first time. He waited patiently.

  “At the moment, all this is mere speculation,” she said.

  Her tone had the air of finality and Thomson knew to press no more.

  After two weeks in England, it was almost time for Marthe to return to Paris. The second week had been strained. For the first time in their relationship, there’d been awkward moments. Thomson’s proposal hung over them like a black cloud. T
he day before Marthe’s departure, they had tea on the terrace of the House of Lords with the Prime Minister. MacDonald had invited them so he could meet the woman who’d had such an effect on Thomson for so many years. Thomson had been longing to introduce Marthe to him.

  “Prime Minister, may I present Princess Marthe Bibesco,” Thomson said.

  MacDonald’s eyes lit up on seeing Marthe, and she appeared to be just as delighted.

  “Prime Minister, it’s such a pleasure,” she said, her long eyelashes fluttering.

  MacDonald took her hand between his and delicately raised it to his lips, kissing it as though it were fine china. Thomson closely watched their every movement and expression, remembering distinctly the night, he himself, had fallen under Marthe’s spell at the foot of the staircase in Cotroceni Palace. He felt a twinge of jealousy.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to meet the darling of Paris,” MacDonald said.

  “Prime Minister,” she purred.

  “Please call me Ramsay; all my closest friends do. CB is one of them and now I hope you will be, too.”

  Thomson remained silent. This was a meeting of intellectual Titans.

  “You’re so kind, Ramsay,” Marthe said, gracing him with one of her most gorgeous smiles.

  “If I say I’m honored, I mean it. For me to meet as talented a writer as you is a great thrill. I know you’re the toast of the salons of Paris. Even Monsieur Proust himself heaps lavish praise upon you.”

  “Oh, they exaggerate, Ramsay.”

  “No, no. I’ve read Catherine-Paris and Les Huits Paradis and the critics praised you as a delicious and learned writer—and I can attest to both. No wonder Thomson’s in love with you. Everybody is!”

  “You yourself are much accomplished. I’ve read your works, and although I may not agree with some of the principles of your political thought, there’s so much I do agree with,” Marthe gushed.

  Thomson couldn’t help but marvel. He knew Marthe to be conservative through and through, but here she was displaying her humanitarian side, which he knew MacDonald would find irresistible. She’d never mentioned reading MacDonald’s writings—and neither had he, hers—that was new and interesting. He could see MacDonald was enchanted.

  They took their seats around a wooden table overlooking the Thames and chatted for half an hour over cream tea and buttered scones. There were no references to the future or their relationship. It was a pleasant interlude and Marthe was thrilled to meet the man who currently managed the greatest and most powerful empire on earth, with a yearly budget greater than the United States, Soviet Russia and Germany. Finally, MacDonald stood up and graciously bid Marthe farewell with a courteous bow and a kiss on each cheek.

  “When you come back, you must both come to Chequers. The gardens are beautiful. I know you’ll enjoy them. When will you come?”

  “I am not sure, Ramsay—perhaps not until next year.”

  MacDonald chuckled. Thomson knew Marthe was admiring his stature: his shock of white hair, like an old lion’s mane, and the bushy white moustache that gave him character and made him so striking.

  She studies people intensely. It’s the nature of writers—Marthe especially; she’s like a sponge. Nothing escapes her.

  “That’s a pity. I’m not sure I’ll be in residence at Chequers by then, Marthe.”

  “Oh yes you will, Ramsay,” Thomson said, turning to Marthe. “He always cracks that joke. He’ll be spending weekends at Chequers for years to come.”

  “Then we shall see. But I’d like you to come. Both of you,” MacDonald said.

  “Yes, and during Marthe’s next visit we’ll dine at my flat,” Thomson said. “You must bring Lady Wilson.”

  MacDonald hurried off to attend to matters of state.

  “What a wonderful-looking man. He has such charisma!” Marthe exclaimed, watching MacDonald striding away.

  “Thank you, Marthe. You made him feel special today. He loved you.”

  “You’re such a good person, Kit. I can understand why you’re such close friends. Does he see much of Lady Wilson?” she asked, looking away across the river.

  The next day, Thomson took Marthe to Victoria Station to catch the train to Dover. From there, she’d take the ferry to Boulogne. They walked down the platform in silence, amid hissing steam and the echoing of slamming doors. Isadora trailed at a discreet distance.

  Thomson was depressed. Everything seemed different. To make matters worse, after her meeting with MacDonald, he felt diminished. Marthe was difficult to read at the best of times. Perhaps he’d pushed her too hard. He’d lain awake all night alone in his flat thinking of what to say this morning.

  At the assigned first-class carriage, Thomson went on board and stashed Marthe’s hand luggage on the overhead rack. From there, he went back to the platform and stood at the door. Isadora disappeared down the corridor out of the way. Marthe stood at the open window above Thomson. A picture of unattainable beauty.

  “Think about what I said,” Thomson said.

  Marthe stared down like the Sphinx. Suddenly, there was the guard’s deafening whistle screaming in his head, signaling loneliness and grief to come. As the train began to move, she put her hand to her mouth and cleared her throat. She spoke softly.

  “All right, I will,” he thought she said.

  He looked at her, unsure; it was hard to hear over all the damned noise in the station. With a half smile, she moved away from the window and sat down. He watched her departing train until it was out of sight, before trudging away with that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach.

  What did she say? All right, I will—I will what?

  Her muffled words kept going round in his mind on the way back to the flat. He’d need to write and find out exactly what she meant, but it might take weeks to get an answer, if then.

  36

  GAS BAGS & ENGINES

  August & September 1929.

  The dreaded engine trials began in August—dreaded because they were both absurdly dangerous and unnecessary. Barnes Wallis stood at one end of the shed with his bullhorn. The three engine cars had been attached to the underside of the airship’s hull. Each car housed two reconditioned Rolls-Royce Condor engines in tandem, totaling six and the gas bags, having a total capacity of almost six million cubic feet had been charged with hydrogen. The more expensive helium—not available in Europe—was a safer gas, but produced less lift, making it less effective. Lou often thought about this—helium hadn’t helped Josh aboard Shenandoah.

  The installation of the gas bags and their charging by the hydrogen plant had been a massive and expensive undertaking. Wallis, the absolute perfectionist, had supervised the operation himself, with assistance from Norway, Lou and Teed, as well as the drawing office and technical staff.

  Lou and Charlotte traveled up on the motorbike and stayed at Charlotte’s parents’ house in Ackworth. Ironically, Jessup had also been summoned to assist, joined by his two Yorkshire cohorts, now recovered. On the road north, the three had flashed by at high speed, passing too close, after swerving around Lou and Charlotte at the last second. Charlotte was shaken. Jessup would require further reining in.

  Wallis showed signs of stress; often irritable, his eyes heavy due to vicious migraines. Lou realized this wasn’t just about having Burney for a boss, nor the sheer enormity of his task. It came down to his nature—the need for absolute control.

  During the gas bag installation, Wallis’s booming commands filled the shed. Things had gone perfectly until the last bag suffered a small tear, not bad, just a few inches long. The shed became filled with Wallis’s fury. Lou took no notice; he knew the performance of all concerned had been practically flawless.

  The gas bag installation and filling operations occurred during a two- week period when Molly was absent (the family having been wisely sent away). During that time, Wallis, Teed, Norway and Lou went over to Wallis’s bungalow for tea, lunch and dinner. Often Burney and his perfumed, powdery wife knocked o
n the door, itching to be allowed in. On spotting the troublesome pair, Teed would wedge a pencil behind the doorbell, while Norway turned up the wireless. After a few minutes leaning on the bell and thumping furiously, they gave up and trudged away.

  Lou and Charlotte visited John and Mary Bull during their time up north. News of Lou’s promotion made them proud. Charlotte saw the promise of a successful future for Lou, but potential danger overshadowed everything. Charlotte also visited Fanny, still pining for Lenny. Charlotte doubted she’d get over the loss. Billy had done well at Howden and was highly thought of. His future looked bright. He’d be posted to Cardington after the engine tests and promoted to ‘rigger’ within a couple of months. Lou arranged for Billy to be billeted with Freddie’s family for a reasonable price for bed and board. Lou thought it’d be good for Billy to be with a family, with a boy his own age.

  Lou rewarded Freddie and his family by getting him a place in the ground crew. Freddie’s father had already been a casual member of walking parties for previous airships over the years, including R38. In that position, Freddie would graduate toward becoming a crewman one day. For now, he’d work in the walking party when time came to launch and assist in mooring operations.

  During their time up north, Lou and Charlotte had dinner with Mr. Shute at the Brown Cow. As soon as they sat down, Norway stunned them.

  “Wallis is l-leaving us,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Lou asked.

  “Switching to aeroplanes.”

  Lou’s jaw dropped and Charlotte gasped, putting her hand to her chest.

  “I thought he was committed to airships,” Lou said.

  “I think he still is, but he’ll do anything to get away from Burney. Things are pretty bad.”

  “That’s a damned shame,” Lou said.

  Then Norway dropped the other shoe. “Burney’s now written a book, which in essence says these two airships as designed are a lost cause,” Norway said. “I’m not sure if it’s to annoy Wallis or Thomson, or if he truly believes it—all three most likely.”