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

by David Dennington

  “Not officially, no. I thought this was just in the interim between airships,” Brancker said. “You know we have plans to get going on more designs for much bigger airships.”

  Colmore was itching to speak. “How do you feel about crossing the Atlantic, or making the voyage to India in one of these airships, old man? I don’t think they’ve proven themselves yet, do you?” he said.

  “You’re asking me, as the engineer of Howden R100, if I am confident in the ship I’ve designed. I have complete confidence in that airship. She has more than fulfilled my expectations and met every requirement of the contract.”

  “So, you’re one hundred percent confident in making the Atlantic crossing in her, then,” Colmore asked. There was a long pause at the other end and they took it to mean that maybe he wasn’t.

  Wallis eventually responded.“Actually, I won’t be going.”

  This came as a horrible blow to Colmore who was unable to conceal his shock. He looked betrayed.

  “What! Why ever not?”

  “I wish I could.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d love to go, but I’m forbidden to fly in airships by the chairman of our board.”

  “Why? You’re on the list of passengers!” Colmore exclaimed.

  “Apparently, my safety is of paramount importance to the company.”

  There was a long, awkward silence and Colmore looked sick.

  “Barnes, will they consider holding off for a spell?” Brancker asked.

  “I don’t think they’d entertain the idea for a moment, Sir Sefton—and why should they, after the way they’ve been treated by Cardington all these years?”

  The following Sunday afternoon, Buck drove Thomson and Marthe from Chequers to the Ritz, where Marthe was dropped off. She had much writing to do. Thomson returned to Ashley Gardens. He usually found Sunday evenings depressing at the best of times, but tonight it was worse. After such wonderful company, he felt lonely. He played his gramophone and sat on the chaise longue studying his ministerial papers in preparation for a busy week. Time was slipping away. He needed to get after Colmore.

  He shut his eyes, soothed by the sounds of Mozart’s Don Giovanni and Sammie’s purring. He soon dozed off and found himself wandering the rues of Paris, searching for the girl in the white carriage. The streets were empty.

  59

  ENEMIES IN THE CAMP

  Monday July 14, 1930.

  The next morning, Thomson went to Gwydyr House. After his initial snooze on the chaise, he'd stumbled off to bed, but couldn’t get back to sleep. He’d spent a sleepless night stewing about Cardington R101. All his personal plans depended on that ship being ready for the India flight. He instructed Knoxwood to call Colmore to Whitehall immediately. Colmore, rather shaken, arrived before lunch and was led into Thomson’s office. He had no idea why he’d been summoned. He’d explained to Knoxwood he wasn’t in uniform and was told it didn’t matter.

  “Just get down here, at once, Weggie,” Knoxwood had said.

  As soon as Colmore walked in, Thomson calmed down. The man was harmless; no point in scaring him to death. But he did want to confront him.

  “I got you down here—and thank you for coming, by the way—as I’ve been hearing things which give me cause for concern. I thought it best to talk to you directly.” Colmore gave a start. “Rumors are circulating of a concerted effort to delay the airship program.”

  “Er, h-how, sir?”

  “They’re trying everything in their power to postpone both voyages.” Colmore swallowed hard and his eyes bulged. “A series of memos and reports were written and disseminated by people in your organization last week suggesting neither airship is ready for their flights.”

  “It’s true reports were issued by—”

  “I’m aware of who wrote them, Colmore, and what they say,” Thomson snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We have enemies in the camp. I trust you’re not playing a double game—not part of a conspiracy, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Thomson paused, his eyes fixed on Colmore. “I’m sure I know where this originated—it’s coming from right here in this building, isn’t it? Tell me who it is!”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “No one has approached you?”

  “No.”

  “I will find out. And you’d better not be involved.”

  “No, sir. I’m not involved.”

  That had to be a slip right there!

  “You’re not involved in what?”

  “I’ve never heard of any conspiracies.”

  Thomson sat and stared at Colmore again. “I understand one of the inspectors has been stirring up a lot of trouble?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He’s concerned the gas bags are full of holes.”

  “And are conditions so serious to warrant him writing letters directly to the Air Ministry—going over the heads of you and your staff?”

  “He’s a bit of an alarmist, that's all.”

  “He wasn’t put up to it by you, or someone in this building, was he?”

  “No, sir, absolutely not!”

  “This problem he talks about—can it be rectified or not?”

  “Oh, definitely, sir.

  “He’s not part of a conspiracy?”

  “Oh Lord, no, sir, certainly not.”

  “I understand you’ve put him in charge of correcting these deficiencies?”

  “Yes, it’ll be his responsibility to oversee and inspect the work.”

  “Good. Perhaps it’ll make him feel important.”

  “Quite, sir.”

  “That’ll keep him quiet. Has work begun on the extra bay?”

  “Er, no, sir.”

  Now there was an edge of menace in Thomson’s voice. “And why is that, Colmore?”

  “I haven’t received instructions from my superiors to proceed.”

  Thomson studied Colmore with suspicion, his eyes narrowing. “I see.”

  Colmore went on. “It’s my vague understanding the Cardington ship is being held in reserve until Howden R100 completes her final test—in case she fails. Then Cardington R101 would be available—”

  Thomson looked incredulous. “To fly to Canada?”

  “That’s my understanding, yes, sir.”

  “To hell with the Canadian flight. You’re not making any sense, Colmore. They’re not going to fly to Canada in a ship in need of an extra bay. That’s all hooey!”

  “I think they were trying to maintain flexibility, sir. Then Howden R100 would be available for the flight to India, if necessary.”

  “What is my name and title, Colmore?”

  “Lord Thomson of Cardington, sir.”

  “I’m not Lord Thomson of Howden?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I do not want to arrive in India in a ship constructed by the Vickers Airship Guarantee Company in Howden.”

  “I understand completely, sir.”

  “Nothing must delay my flight to India in Cardington R101 built by the Royal Airship Works. Got that?

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thomson spun round in his chair to face the painting of the Taj Mahal on the wall behind him. He raised his hand grandly to it, as though talking to a schoolboy. “The India flight, Colmore! Do you understand? India!” He turned back to face the beleaguered man. “Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Colmore said weakly, staring with dread into the Indian summer heat—but then noticing the airship, his eyes opened wide with surprise. Thomson smiled inwardly. Churchill had done a nice job. The man was quite a painter—for a damned Tory! It had certainly spooked Colmore.

  “Make it happen! Everything clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t fail me. Get out.”

  Thomson was more convinced than ever that his suspicions and the rumors had been correct.

  Thomson and Marthe spent the remainder of their time together enjoying London and the
ir friends, with trips to country houses and dining in fine restaurants. Thomson usually went to the Ministry in the mornings, while Marthe worked on her writing in her hotel suite at the Ritz.

  They spent many pleasant hours walking the streets of the West End, visiting museums and parks, their favorite being St. James’s, where they fed the ducks. Like other things, this had become a ritual in this special place, the discord of last year forgotten.

  Thomson didn’t bring up the subject of marriage. He’d wait until just before Marthe’s departure on Monday. As the week went by, he sensed this time she might give him a positive answer—she’d been exceptionally sweet this visit. On the last Saturday morning, since the weather was nice, they drove to Lord’s Cricket Ground where Marthe made an effort to understand and enjoy the game.

  While Thomson and Marthe were at Lord’s, Lou was travelling back from the Scilly Isles in the Atlantic Ocean aboard Howden R100, completing her final twenty-four-hour test. The ship had behaved perfectly. Shortly after she returned to Cardington, her departure for Montreal was confirmed for 3:30 a.m. Tuesday morning.

  Lou and Charlotte had seen little of one another over the past few weeks. She’d been on night duty at the hospital and asleep during the day. He was awakened by her in the mornings as she climbed into bed just before dawn; usually tired and irritable. She rarely spoke. Lou had been working long hours, getting the airship ready for the twenty-four-hour final test and the flight to Canada. In the evenings, he arrived as Charlotte was leaving. They gave each other a smile and a peck on the cheek, like passing strangers.

  Charlotte had lost weight and settled into a never-ending state of despair, speaking in monosyllables, if at all, her vitality gone. There was no animosity between them and Lou was patient and affectionate. He remained convinced Charlotte would snap out of it once the two ships had made their intercontinental flights and were up and running, confident their closeness would return.

  Charlotte still kept the house immaculate and the kitchen cupboards well-stocked. She’d put his things together for the Canada voyage and his side trip down to Virginia to see his family. Lou got the impression she was glad he was making the effort to see them. Pity she couldn’t be with him. They’d love her. Still, there’d be plenty of time for that. Perhaps they’d make a trip to New York next year—he’d suggest they start planning as soon as he got back.

  When Lou returned from the final test on Saturday evening, Charlotte was home. She appeared brighter. She told him she had time off to help him get ready for his departure on Tuesday. “Does your family know you’re coming?” Charlotte asked.

  “I sent them a telegram,” Lou replied. “I expect they’ll be at Union Station.” The atmosphere was difficult to comprehend; although she was more communicative, there remained a distance between them as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. They'd become polite strangers.

  “I’ve washed plenty of socks, pants and shirts for you. And your spare trousers are on the bed. Shall I put them in your kit bag?” Charlotte asked.

  “No, no. I can do it.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “If you could dig out one or two photos of yourself and of us together, I’d like to show them to my parents,” Lou said.

  “I’ll put some on your bedside table.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  “I put a book there for you —‘Great Expectations.’”

  “Dickens. Super! I’ll read it on the ship. Thanks, love.”

  “So, it’s definitely on for Tuesday, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened with Fred McWade and all that late-night carry-on?”

  “Things blew over. I told him they would.”

  “So everything’s all right now with the Cardington ship?”

  “Yes. I expect it’ll be fine. Fred’s overseeing the problem now—he’ll make sure things are done right.” As he said this, Lou wondered if any of Brancker’s tactics had worked.

  Nothing had been started on extending the ship. He thought someone had to be pulling strings to prevent Colmore moving ahead. It was mystifying. He assumed the reports written by the R.A.W. team had fallen on deaf ears, since he’d seen no reaction from any quarter. If ordered to insert the extra bay, would they still be required to meet Thomson’s schedule? If so, they were losing valuable time for testing. Irwin had drawn up a comprehensive schedule of tests to be done after modifications were complete. Lou had never told Charlotte about any of this, knowing she’d worry herself sick. He had to admit it worried him, too.

  “And they’re putting in an extra bay—shouldn’t be any problems then,” Lou told her.

  “What about the Howden ship? Were your tests okay?” Charlotte asked.

  “They went without a hitch. She’s a good ship. The flight to Canada will be as easy as pie.”

  “I expect you’ll be glad to see your family. That’ll be nice. How will you get down to Virginia?”

  “I’ll hop on a train in Montreal. It’ll take me through New York to Washington. They’ll know when we arrive. It’ll be big news. God, I wish you could be with me, Charlie. Next year, perhaps, huh?”

  Charlotte gave a half smile. “It’s been a long time. I hope they’re okay. Things are very bad in America.” This made Lou pause—he hadn’t given the American economy much thought. “When you’re with them, perhaps you might decide to stay there,” she said.

  Lou grabbed her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

  “Hey, don’t talk like that. You know I’ll come back. I love you, Charlie.”

  She looked away as if she hadn’t heard.

  “The time will fly by. I’ll be back in no time flat,” Lou said.

  “Yes, I expect so.”

  60

  TIME TO SAY GOODBY

  Monday & Tuesday July 28 & 29, 1930.

  Thomson and Marthe sat on the terrace waiting for afternoon tea. It was sunny, with a delightful breeze off the river. Buck waited in the limousine on the quadrangle with Marthe’s luggage stowed in the trunk. Thomson needed to be available. An important vote was coming to the floor. Prematurely, the newspapers were full of the story of Thomson’s selection as next Viceroy to India. This gave him satisfaction, though he hadn’t formally accepted—that could wait until his return from India. He still needed Marthe’s decision. A waiter arrived with a tray of tea and cakes and set them on the table. He poured their teas and left.

  “The newspapers are full of it today,” Thomson said.

  “This will be your crowning achievement. After that, who knows what the future may bring? Perhaps even higher office someday,” Marthe said.

  Thomson didn’t want to concern himself with that today, although the thought had often crossed his mind. “I’m still uneasy about leaving Ramsay to deal with the radicals in the party. It’s a lonely life being Prime Minister. Our talks give him solace. It’s all perhaps too much to ask for the sake of what—ambition? Five years is a long time to be away—”

  He was cut off by one of the ushers from the chamber rushing up and the sound of Big Ben striking the half hour: five-thirty.

  “Lord Thomson—it’s time to vote, sir.”

  Of all the times!

  “Marthe, wait for me. We must talk before you go. I won’t be long.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be here. Go and cast your vote.”

  “I’ll meet you in the Hall in twenty minutes,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  Thomson set off for the House at a brisk pace. Marthe strolled down to the river wall and peered at the rippling water, lapping the embankment. A tug hooted as it passed, towing empty barges toward the docks. She was jarred back from her reflections on Thomson’s overtures by the pitiful calls of a seagull which landed on the wall beside her.

  A warning?

  She turned away from the river and headed for the lobby. Once inside Westminster Hall, she glanced across the flagstones to the spot where Charles I had been sentenced to death through Cromwell’s treachery. She thought of hi
s horrible death mask at Chequers.

  Go away morbid thoughts!

  “This is the place where they bring the dead to lie in state,” Thomson had told her once.

  She shuddered and went to the wall to study a picture of the beleaguered King in a gilt frame, his head still defiantly on his shoulders. Wherever she stood, his accusing eyes followed her. She was disturbed by the sound of someone entering at the bottom of the hall. The crash of doors echoed across the space a hundred feet away. She turned to look, hoping it might be Thomson, but it was a paunchy, old gentleman with long, white hair who strode toward her.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were somebody else,” Marthe said.

  “Who are you waiting for? Perhaps I can be of assistance,” the man said.

  “Lord Thomson.”

  “Ah, you must mean our precious Lord of the Air!”

  Is this man being sarcastic?

  “Er, yes.”

  “If I were you, Madam, I’d talk him out of all of his grandiose schemes. It can only end in disaster. It’s all just an impossible dream, you know.”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  He raised his hat. “Lord Scunthorpe at your service, Madam. Good day to you.”

  He walked off toward the north entrance. Thomson entered from the other end, carrying his hat. He noticed Marthe looked ruffled. “Did that man speak to you?” he said.

  “Oh, he just asked if he could be of assistance, that’s all.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Nothing important.”

  They walked across the room and he stared up at the ceiling as he always did.

  “Yes, I know, it’s the most magnificent Gothic room in all of England,” Marthe said. He smiled. They stopped for a moment at the center, his eyes earnest. “Marthe—”

  She raised her hand to stop him.

  “Kit, I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought. Your voting gave me a final moment to reflect.” She placed her hand on his arm. “Fly your airship to India and on your return, I promise, you shall have my answer.”