“Ramsay,” Marthe whispered, her eyes burning into his. “So lovely to see you again.”
“You know Lady Wilson, don’t you, Marthe?” Thomson said.
“Yes, of course. We’re old friends,” Marthe answered, giving Lady Wilson a sincere smile. After greetings and more cocktails, everyone moved to the dining room where Gwen served a fish starter course.
“I was just admiring your carpet, CB,” Lady Wilson said.
“It’s precious to me. It was presented to me in Kurdistan,” Thomson said grandly.
“The funny thing is—I used to own its identical twin,” Marthe said.
Thomson withered visibly. He hated mention of it.
“Really. And don’t you still?” MacDonald asked.
“No, it perished in the flames when the wretched Germans burned down my house in Romania during the war.”
“Good Lord! What reason did they have to do such a thing?” Lady Wilson asked.
“They believed I was keeping British secret documents there—which, of course, I was. This was in the early days of our friendship, wasn’t it Kit?”
“Yes, and very nearly the last!” Thomson said.
“Oh, you poor thing!” Lady Wilson said. “It must have been awful for you.”
Thomson appeared sheepish. He wasn’t proud of the episode. For years after the war, he regretted storing those documents at Marthe’s house. It was foolish and naive. He worried it may have diminished him in her eyes.
“It was a dreadful occurrence. Now, Marthe shares this one with me. It’s my talisman. As long as I possess it, Marthe and I shall remain close.”
MacDonald lifted his glass. “Then I say God bless you, CB. Guard it with your life!”
“Hear, hear!” said Lady Wilson.
Gwen served duck à l’orange for the main course and Daisy recharged their glasses.
“I’m trying to talk Kit into coming to Paris for Easter,” Marthe said.
“Why don’t you both come to Chequers? The blossoms will be bursting out in all their glory,” MacDonald said.
“I cannot be here at Easter, but will you ask me in July, Ramsay?”
“July! That’s a long way off. Do you think I’ll still be in office, Marthe?”
“Of course. Tory friends of mine have said so.”
“You can’t believe a word they say,” MacDonald said, with an ironic smile.
Lady Wilson glanced at Thomson. “Tell us about your recent trip to Paris, CB. Did you have fun?”
“Wonderful!”
“Tell them what happened on the way over, Kit,” Marthe said.
“We ran into fog and couldn’t land in Paris. We ended up having a bumpy ride over Beauvais Ridge, then a rough landing in a field near Allonne.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Lady Wilson. “Were you all right?”
“You didn’t tell me about this,” MacDonald said with surprise.
“Oh, everything turned out well. I didn’t want to tell you. I know how you worry. And you might ban me from flying—which might be embarrassing for the Minister of State for Air.”
“What happened?” MacDonald asked.
“A delightful little rabbit poacher—a Monsieur Rabouille!—came running out of the woods and led us to some old, stone cottages, where these wonderful peasants took us in. What a place! Desolate and unforgiving, but wonderful just the same. He kissed my hand when he saw me. Monsieur Rabouille, the rabbit poacher! Splendid fellow! I hope we meet again, someday.”
“So you actually went inside one of the cottages?” Lady Wilson asked.
“Yes, I sat huddled by the fireplace while this wonderful lady kept me plied with wine. What an experience it was! I was so touched by it—those people are the salt of the earth. I pulled out my wallet and said, ‘Let me pay you for your kind hospitality, dear lady.’ ‘Non, non, non. I have had the pleasure of your conversation, monsieur,’ she said. Nevertheless, I tucked a franc under the seat cushion for her to find later.”
“Oh, that was so sweet of you,” Lady Wilson exclaimed.
“‘You are the luckiest of folk to live in this place, Madam. You have peace,’ I said to her. She just said, ‘Plutôt un très grand isolement.’ Total isolation, more like. ‘I love your people, Madam. This country is so good and so beautiful—someday I shall come here to die,’ I told her.”
“Oh Kit, how could you say such a thing!” Marthe said, her eyes filling with tears. “You should never speak that way.” She looked in desperation at Lady Wilson. “He didn’t tell me he’d said that.”
Daisy cleared the dinner plates while Gwen served a dessert of rhubarb tart and cream.
“Come, Marthe, let me take you in the other room. You can compose yourself and we can talk,” Lady Wilson said.
The two women went into the sitting room while Thomson and MacDonald ate dessert and drank their coffee. After that, they drank brandy and smoked cigars. The ladies’ desserts remained untouched.
“I’m astonished it upset her so much,” Thomson said.
“She cares about you a lot, you know. I can see that,” MacDonald said. Thomson sat in silence, pondering Marthe’s emotional outburst—it’d seemed genuine.
Maybe it’s time I spoke to her again.
Later, when the dinner guests had gone and the servants had finished clearing away, Marthe and Thomson sat beside the fireplace drinking liqueurs.
“Have you considered my proposal any further, Marthe?” Thomson inquired gently.
“Oh, Kit, you know it’s impossible.”
“If the voyage to India is successful and I’m appointed Viceroy, anything will be possible, my dearest, I can assure you of that. The viceroy position requires him to be married.”
“What do you mean, ‘if it’s successful’?”
“Promise me, Marthe, that we’ll discuss the subject before the voyage. I haven’t spoken of it for nearly a year and I will not speak of it until then.”
Marthe sat up and looked directly into his eyes. “Kit, will your airship really be safe? Please tell me the truth.”
“Marthe, this whole voyage is about my destiny and I hope yours, too, my darling.”
He knew power was her aphrodisiac. She turned to him and he took her forcefully into his arms. He kissed her passionately—more passionately than he’d ever done before.
55
THE WHISTLEBLOWER
Sunday June 29, 1930.
Boom! Boom! Boom! The guns raged on both sides. Lou lay there in the darkness alongside twenty-five other combat-weary soldiers. Boom! Boom! Boom!
Suddenly, a tremendous explosion ripped through their deep bunker, blasting a mountain of rubble, earth, wood whalers and body parts everywhere. He was entombed and couldn’t move his legs. A terrible pain in his chest and pressure in his lungs made it hard to breathe and he was freezing cold. He tried to suck in foul-smelling air and smoke, realizing he’d been hit. Reaching into his top pocket, he pulled out his lighter and spun the flint wheel with his thumb. The blessed flame burst before his eyes. He looked down in horror at his chest and watched blood oozing from a gaping hole. It spread over his shredded tunic and over the ground like a creeping red blanket. The torso of another buried man lay across his legs, trapping them. He tried to scream for help, but he had no breath and no sound came. His thin flame was replaced by a bright shaft of light penetrating the dust and smoke. He watched a gloved-hand pulling away rubble from outside his tomb. A grotesque giant fly’s head pushed its way through the hole babbling at him in guttural gibberish. As his eyes focused, Lou realized it was man wearing a gas mask with goggles over his eyes and a German helmet. Had he come to rescue him, or to kill him?
Boom! Boom! Boom! There it was again.
“Lou, Lou, wake up, wake up!” Charlotte urgently whispered, shaking his arm. “Someone’s banging on the door.”
“What? What’s happening?”
Lou, unable to move, gasped for breath. He felt sticky, warm blood running down across his stomach and cou
ld taste it in his mouth.
“Lou, Lou, wake up.”
“What? What? What time is it?”
“After midnight. Something awful must have happened.”
Lou opened his eyes, beginning to come round and put his hand to his chest with dread. It seemed dry, but the awful pain remained. He pulled back the covers and, clutching his chest, rolled out of bed. He switched on the bedside lamp and looked at his chest. No blood. He slipped his dressing gown on over his pajamas.
“See who it is, but do be careful.”
After switching on the dim landing light, he moved down the creaking stairs, clinging to the banister.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“All right! All right! Damn it. I’m coming.”
Lou, on opening the front door, was surprised to see the rotund figure of Inspector Fred McWade. He was hopping from one foot to the other. He looked frantic. The night was warm. McWade wore what he always wore—white shirt, grey sports jacket, tie, and flannel trousers—held up from his ankles with metal bicycle clips. It looked like he was wearing plus fours, ready to play golf. He pulled off his tweed cap.
“Fred! Whatever’s wrong?”
“I’ve got to see you. It’s very important.”
“Come in, come in. What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, laddie, I know it’s late, but I must talk to you,” McWade said, pulling out a handkerchief to mop his dripping face and brow. Speech was difficult. He was wheezing and his breathing, labored.
Charlotte leaned over the railing on the top landing in her nightdress. She called down. “Lou, who is it? Is something wrong?”
“It’s okay, honey. Fred McWade’s come for a chat, that’s all. It’s only about work. Go back to bed. Everything’s all right. Don't worry.”
McWade stepped into the hallway. Lou pushed the living room door open. “Let’s go in here. You can tell me what’s eating you,” he said, switching on the table lamps. Fred followed him and Lou silently closed the door.
“I’m sorry to come here like this, Lou. I hope I haven’t upset Charlotte, but it couldn’t wait.”
Lou motioned for McWade to take a seat. “What the hell’s the matter, Fred?”
“Lou, you’re special,” McWade said, sinking into an armchair. “I saw it ever since we pulled you off that wreck in the river up north. Someone upstairs thinks you’re special, too.”
“Charlotte?”
“Almighty God!”
“Oh …yes, right.”
“I don’t want to see anything happen to you, especially after what happened over the Humber. I want you to get out!” The more agitated McWade got, the thicker his Glaswegian accent became. Lou went to the sideboard and poured two full tumblers of Johnny Walker.
“Fred, you’re gonna have to talk a bit slower for me.” He handed the Scotch to McWade.
“Oh, thank you, son. I need this.”
“Now calm down, Fred. What’s up eh?”
Charlotte had slipped silently down the stairs and was now sitting on the bottom step. She could only make out odd words here and there, but what she heard alarmed her. She felt a desperate need to run out the front door. To be swallowed up by the darkness.
“Take the advice of an old man who’s been in airships all his life. Get out of this business, fast.” McWade pointed toward Cardington. “That thing up there is a bloody deathtrap!”
Lou knew McWade was one of the most experienced men in the country. He’d trained at the School of Military Engineering and joined the School of Ballooning in the Royal Engineers before Lou was born. He’d worked on airship construction for government for years, becoming a senior man in the Airship Inspection Department—the A.I.D. Lou sipped his whisky and peered into his glass.
Both ships had been laid up in their sheds for most of the winter and into the spring. Howden R100 had problems of her own, but fixable. The cover leaked. Water had shorted out the electrical systems and damaged the gas bags. The tail structure needed rebuilding after collapsing during one of her endurance test flights, and the second-hand engines caused trouble—just as Wallis knew they would. They’d need replacing.
By early summer, some modifications to Cardington R101 had been completed, though not all. The rotting cover had only partly been removed and insertion of the extra bay hadn’t even begun. Padding where gas bags rubbed against the structure had been attempted, haphazardly. In places where the cover hadn’t been replaced, reinforcing strips of canvas had been glued over weak, friable areas, giving the ship a ‘patched up’ look.
Under the pretext of testing the ship after weight-reducing modifications, Cardington R101 had been rushed out of her shed in questionable weather. In reality, she’d been brought out to participate in a publicity stunt. That June, the Royal Air Display took place and Air Ministry big shots thought it’d give the public a boost if Cardington R101 came out and did a party piece in front of the King.
The airship was moored at the tower and immediately a ninety-foot tear was discovered on the starboard side and a forty-five-foot tear on port. Riggers dangled on ropes for hours in wind and rain in soft-soled shoes with needles and thread making repairs.
That week, the ship made several flights. Lt. Cmdr. Atherstone had gone to Canada to make preparations for Howden R100’s arrival. Capt. Booth and Capt. Meager covered for him while Maurice Steff acted as second officer. Lou was on board for all these flights. It proved to be an unnerving experience, especially for Booth and Meager, not being used to Cardington R101’s unpredictable behavior.
McWade had been on board with the A.I.D. and Lou could see he was unimpressed. On practice day, with Booth acting as first officer, Lou watched in horror as the ship, required to come in low over the crowd and dip her nose to the royal box, almost collided with an adjacent building. Cameron, the height coxswain, lowered the bow in salute, but it continued to drop sharply and he had difficulty bringing her back up. The journey home had been grim, the ship becoming increasingly heavy and uncontrollable. Irwin managed to get back to the tower by dumping fuel and water ballast as he'd been forced to do the year before.
The following day, Lou was on board with Meager as first officer this time. They needed to be over Hendon Aerodrome at 3:50 p.m. After spending several uneventful hours over London and Southend, Irwin brought the ship through rain showers to Hendon for the display, where Cameron managed to perform the salute to the Royal Box over a crowd of a hundred thousand people. It had been touch and go. Lou thought diving to within five hundred feet and pulling up sharply in front of the King was sheer lunacy—a stunt which could have easily resulted in catastrophe for the nation.
The homeward journey turned out to be as bad as the day before. As they passed through rain squalls, the bow kept dropping without warning. Water ballast and fuel were dumped all the way home. Irwin, Meager and Lou knew something was radically wrong. The loss of lift was dramatic—even after burning two tons of fuel, it was still necessary to drop another ten tons of ballast. In this condition, lightened or not, this airship could never make it to Egypt—let alone India.
Lou took another sip of whisky. “Fred, I can’t just up and walk away. I represent the U.S. Navy. Besides, I couldn’t leave the men, or Captain Irwin.”
“Och, Lou, we fished you out of the bloody river once.” He took a gulp of his drink. “You might not be so lucky next time. You should take Charlotte and go back to America.” McWade put his hand to his head. “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s none o’ my business.”
“And what about you?” Lou asked. “You’ll be flying in both ships—to Canada and then India.”
“It doesn’t matter about me. I’m old. It’s all those young boys I’m concerned about. I don’t want them on my conscience.”
“Look, Fred, I think you’re just upset. Granted these flights this week didn’t go so well—”
“Go so well! They were a bloody disaster! She nearly dived into the ground nine times by my reckoning. I don’t know how that boy held the damned thing up.
I’ve had enough—something’s got to be done. You’re the only person I can talk to.” With that, McWade took out a white envelope from his inside pocket and held it up. Lou figured it must be his resignation.
Ah, this is why he came at this ungodly hour!
“I want you to read this,” McWade said. “I finished it half an hour ago.”
He leaned forward in his armchair and held it out to Lou. Lou switched on the table lamp behind him as the clock on the mantelpiece (a wedding present from Charlotte’s parents), chimed prettily. It was 2:00 a.m. He began reading. His eyes widened when he saw the title of the addressee. As he read the beautiful script, Lou heard McWade’s broad Scottish accent accompanied by the gently ticking clock.
86, Barmeston Rd., Bedford.
29th June, 1930.
The Director of Aeronautical Inspection,
Air Ministry, Whitehall,
London.
Re: HMA CARDINGTON R101
Dear Sir,
Owing to the very serious state of affairs concerning His Majesty’s Airship Cardington R101, I am forced to write directly to you. On the 26th of June, I issued a ‘Permit to Fly,’ dated 20th June and valid until 19th July 1930. Due to modifications of the harness system in an effort to increase gas capacity, the gas bags are now tight against longitudinals and rubbing against nuts and bolts and all parts of the structure. In my opinion, these modifications have led to a dangerous situation with thousands of holes being made, causing loss of gas at an alarming rate.
Over the years, padding has been an acceptable method of repair in isolated instances. Padding to the extent required in this case is totally unacceptable. The gas bags in this airship were recently removed and repaired, but after recent test flights, they are full of holes again. When padding is installed, these areas become hidden from view and corrosion of the structure usually ensues, which is another reason why padding is unacceptable.
Until this matter is taken seriously, and an acceptable solution put forward, I cannot recommend to you an extension of the present Permit to Fly or any further Permit or Certificate.
The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue. Page 41