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

by David Dennington

  Thomson stood at the microphone with Capt. Booth and Second Officer Steff, a small group of R.A.W. personnel on either side. The crowd that had been at the fence was allowed in and people gathered around to listen.

  “It is with pleasure that I welcome you home from your voyage to Canada,” Thomson said, smiling at Colmore and Scott and then at Burney and Norway standing off to one side. “I want to congratulate the Howden team and Vickers for their magnificent achievement. This will be recorded as a landmark flight in the history books. In undertaking this journey across the Atlantic Ocean to North America, you have succeeded in taking a giant step in the development of a new generation of British airships.”

  Thomson looked directly at Capt. Irwin standing beside Lt. Cmdr. Atherstone. Irwin appeared thin and drawn. “We shall now move forward with complete confidence toward a successful conclusion of this grand experiment.”

  Thomson turned his gaze on Colmore, Richmond and Rope. “All that remains is for this great airship behind us to make its own landmark voyage. This will demonstrate to the Dominion Prime Ministers the advantages of this mode of travel—a demonstration of incalculable importance! Thank you.”

  Thomson signaled to the BBC announcer it was time to end the broadcast. The brass band struck up again with the rousing “Royal Air Force March Past,” heard by thousands all over Britain.

  On reaching home, Lou looked up at the front door step, remembering the image of Charlotte when he’d last seen her there. He’d had it imprinted on his mind for the last fifteen days. He bounded up the steps and knocked on the door. While he waited, he removed the present, the wine and the card from his kitbag, ready to hand them to her. He’d hastily bought Charlotte a small, white marble replica of Abraham Lincoln from a gift shop at Penn Station when the train stopped en route to Montreal. At the station, he’d also bought a bottle of Cabernet from Napa Valley and a gift card. They’d celebrate. She’d like that. He stood at the door and studied the brass knocker. He’d never seen it polished so brightly.

  Must be looking forward to seeing me. She’s been busy. Bless her heart!

  He knocked again and waited.

  No answer.

  She must be in the garden.

  He put down his kit bag and, holding the flowers in one hand, the gift box and the wine under his arm, and the card between his teeth, he searched for his key. He finally fished it out, dropping the wine as he did so. The bottle smashed and the wine ran down the concrete steps. Lou cursed under his breath as he unlocked the door, pushing it into a pile of mail scattered about the floor. His heart sank. He put the flowers on the hall table with the present, chocolates and card and gathered up the mail. His birthday card in the brown envelope was the first thing he spotted with the two telegrams he’d sent from North America. Something must have happened to her.

  Oh my God, I hope she’s all right!

  His mind began to race. He thought of the sugar in his gas tank …

  What if Jessup’s been round …Damn that son of a bitch!

  He called out, although he realized it was futile. The place felt like a morgue.

  “Charlotte!”

  She obviously wasn’t home.

  Maybe she went up north.

  Everything in the house was pristine and in its place—too pristine. He went down to the kitchen. Again, all was clean and perfect. Even the rubbish bin was spotless. The sink shone white with nothing on the draining board or table. He peered inside the metal bread bin. Empty, not even a crumb. He heard Fluffy at the door mewing and let her in. She wanted fussing over, but he didn’t have time for her. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, Fluffy on his heels.

  Their bedroom door was ajar. He pushed it open and gazed around the room. Immaculate. The bed was made, not a crease anywhere. His guitar hung on the wall on his side of the bed where it always was. Shined to perfection. A dead bluebottle on the windowsill seemed out of place. The candle holder, usually on her bedside table, had disappeared.

  He opened the wardrobe. All her things were gone. His clothes, newly washed and ironed, hung on his side. His heart began to pound.

  “Oh, no, oh no,” he gasped.

  He went to the chest of drawers, without noticing the envelope, and opened ‘the baby’ drawer. Empty. He yanked open the rest of Charlotte’s drawers. All empty. The house looked as if Charlotte had never set foot in it, except for a few photos—that said it all.

  Reminders she doesn’t want.

  “Oh, Charlotte. What’s happened to you?” he whispered.

  Suddenly, he noticed the white envelope propped against the photo on the chest of drawers. It came like a hammer blow. He knew instinctively what it was and froze, staring at it with dread. The way it was placed in front of that particular photo in its special gold frame had to be a statement. His name was in her hand. He snatched it up, tore it open with shaking hands and pulled out the letter. He sank down onto the bed, his hand against his head in despair.

  Dear Louis,

  By the time you read this, you will have been to Canada and returned safely—I hope. I am sorry to tell you I have left you. I am not cut out for this life. All I ever wanted was for us to be an ordinary family with children and a dog—and we both know how that turned out.

  We have had good times and bad—mostly bad for me, though. I have given it all much thought, and I must face the fact that I no longer love you. Please do not come after me, or contact me. That would be futile. I wish you all the luck and happiness in the world doing what I know you love most.

  Goodbye – Charlotte

  He had a vision of her standing on the doorstep the night he left—like a goddess.

  “Goodbye, Lou,” she’d whispered.

  How had he missed that?

  Fluffy jumped on the bed beside him, mewing and purring, wildly happy he was home.

  “She’s left us, Fluffy,” Lou said quietly, his eyes fixed on Binks’ three pencil portraits on the wall: he, the intrepid airman, she, the stunning flapper. Binks had portrayed her beautiful, full lips perfectly. Her smile so captivating. So chic … Then it hit him.

  Robert!

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

  He must have materialized from somewhere.

  “No, surely not …”

  She’s obsessed with getting pregnant.

  Suddenly, his incredulous eyes blazed and his anger erupted.

  “God damn it!”

  He leapt to his feet and smashed his fist through the wardrobe door, splintering it.

  “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”

  Fluffy flew out the bedroom door in terror. Lou stumbled after her down to the kitchen in a daze, holding his bleeding fist. He held it under the cold tap. It hurt like hell. He opened a cabinet and pulled out the Scotch Norway had brought before Christmas. He ripped the top off, poured some in a glass and swilled it down. He tried to think. This wouldn’t help, but he needed something to numb the shock and the pain in his hand. His wild thoughts went to Charlotte, his father, back to Charlotte again. Agony. He sat at the table with his head in his hands. A monotonous wood pigeon cooed from a tree in the garden. He wished he could kill the damned thing! He poured out another shot and put the bottle on the counter. No point in drinking any more. He finished his glass and went back up to the bedroom and laid down, his face in her pillow, her familiar scent now replaced by soap powder.

  At Shed No.1, with the broadcast over, the journalists were ready with questions. They raised their hands. Thomson pointed to one. “It’s Tom Brewer—the Daily Telegraph, if I remember correctly?”

  “Quite right, sir. When do you propose setting off for India—I presume you’re still going, are you?”

  “Yes, of course. As to the date, I leave that to my team.”

  “If you go, don’t you have a deadline to be back to attend the Prime Minister’s Conference?”

  Thomson smiled at Colmore. “I have every confidence we’ll be back by 20th October.”

  Thomson singled out anothe
r journalist.

  “Bill Hagan, Daily Mail. When do you anticipate completion of the modifications?”

  “I’m told by R.A.W. the extra bay will be completed this month.” Thomson glanced at Colmore who nodded.

  “And ready to fly when?”

  “In September.”

  “So you’ll leave for India in September, then?”

  “I expect it’ll be late September, yes,” Thomson said, eyeing Colmore again. He pointed at another reporter. “Mr. Haines with the Times, over there, yes, sir.”

  “Will that leave adequate time for testing?”

  “I shall be guided by my Cardington team.”

  “It doesn’t seem to me like you’re allowing enough time. Is it wise to go flying off to India without the airship being properly tested?” Haines asked.

  “As I said, I’ll be guided by the experts.” Thomson glared at Irwin, sure he was in agreement with the premise of the question. “Look, I want to make myself perfectly clear. While I’m in charge, unnecessary risks will not be run and lives will not be sacrificed.”

  Bill Hagan came back with another question. “Sir, you said yourself in your speech ‘this is all experimental.’ Does it make sense for you to be flying around in an experimental aircraft?”

  “I’ll just say this: I will not ask of others what I won’t do myself.”

  Thomson pointed at another reporter, remembering him as the troublemaker with the five o’clock shadow.

  “George Hunter, Daily Express, sir. Has the fact that Howden R100 has flown to Canada affected the R.A.W.’s judgment? Are they now obligated to fly to India when, perhaps, their ship isn’t ready? Do you really think this ship’s up to the task?”

  Thomson frowned.

  Damn this man!

  “I’m completely confident in this airship and in the Royal Airship Works staff and its officers. That’s why I’ll be on board when she casts off. One last question—you’re Jacobs with Aeroplane Magazine, I remember.”

  “Sixty tons of disposable lift. That was the stipulated requirement if you remember, sir. I remember distinctly you telling us—”

  “Yes, well, er—”

  “They’ve managed to achieve only thirty-five tons—that’s twenty-five tons short.”

  Thomson gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “The team is working hard to rectify that—”

  “Wouldn’t it be wiser to stop the clock and the schedule until the ship is proven—just to be on the safe side?”

  Thomson saw Irwin exchange glances with Brancker. He wondered if these questions had been planted. Irwin actually nodded his head as he glanced at Atherstone.

  The nerve of the man!

  “I’ve already stated my feelings on all this.”

  Another journalist raised his hand.

  “All right, one more.”

  “Sir, stories are filtering out to the press about morale: that it’s at an all-time low and there’s a breakdown of discipline at Cardington. Would you care to comment?”

  “Who are you, sir?” Thomson asked. He’d been caught wrong-footed and cast around helplessly toward his R.A.W. team. They gazed at him blankly, while Irwin stared at the ground.

  “Edmund Jones, Daily Mirror, sir,” the reporter replied.

  The Daily Mirror! I thought these people were supposed to be on our side.

  “Edmund Jones,” Thomson said, filing that name away. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, sir. Good day, gentlemen.” Thomson marched off.

  From the car, he watched the reporters gathering around Burney and Norway. They appeared eager to talk.

  They would be!

  73

  OLIVIA

  Tuesday July 29, 1930.

  After Lou had climbed on his motorbike and left for the Cardington tower in the middle of the night, Charlotte returned to the bedroom. She removed a blanket from the bed, went down to the kitchen and opened the French doors. After turning off the lights, she sank into one of the deckchairs. She remained in a semi-catatonic state until she heard the sound of Lou’s airship passing over. It was as if it were trying to seek her out. She glared at the massive, black shape, droning like a prehistoric insect.

  Damn you! You can’t see me here in the dark.

  The airship passed over, its red navigation light clearly visible. She watched it vanish into the darkness. She felt relieved—never wanting to set eyes on the thing again. That chapter was over.

  Charlotte sat in the deckchair through the rest of the night, wrapped in the blanket, staring at the stars. At dawn, she went back to bed and slept until noon. Three times she’d been woken by someone knocking on the front door, which she ignored. When she finally got up, she washed and dressed and walked to the Irwin’s house on Putroe Lane. She rang the doorbell and stood on the front step like a waif. Olivia opened the door.

  “Come in, you poor dear. I came round to visit you earlier, but you weren’t home.”

  Charlotte’s face was grim. “I’ll not stay long. There are things I need to tell you, Olivia.”

  Olivia put the kettle on and then sat down with Charlotte.

  “I’m leaving Lou,” Charlotte said.

  Olivia’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “What do you mean? You can’t be serious. Have you told Lou?”

  “No. I thought it better he didn’t know. I’m leaving Bedford this week.”

  “Charlotte, are you sure about this? You’re such a lovely couple. Come and stay here with us while he’s away and think about it.”

  “Olivia, you can’t imagine what I’ve been through. It’s made me so ill.” She broke down and began to cry. “I can’t go on. I tried to warn him. I wanted to persuade him. I’d made up my mind last year to tell him how I felt. I had it planned when he came home that day when Thomson came up after he’d got back in office. I’d worked it all out; what I was going to say. We would quit all this and go back to the cottage like he promised. Mr. Bull would take him back. But when he came home he was so happy—he got two promotions that day. I just couldn’t do it.”

  “Oh, dear, Charlotte. But I think you should wait until Lou returns.”

  “No, my mind’s made up. Truth is Olivia, I don’t love him anymore. I can’t be the wife of an airshipman—not for one more day.”

  Charlotte wiped her eyes and blew her nose. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Charlotte became mesmerized, dulled by her thoughts.

  “I was there, you know. I saw everything,” she said finally, her voice flat.

  “Where, love? What did you see?”

  “When his ship went down in the Humber.”

  Olivia put her hand to her mouth in disbelief. “You were there?”

  “I was standing right there on Victoria dock.”

  “You saw it?” Olivier closed her eyes.

  Charlotte gazed at the wall, experiencing the horror again.

  “Everything—that thing on fire and breaking in half, the control car breaking away, spinning in the air like a top, men on fire, men falling, bits of bodies flying everywhere—”

  “Dear God! I didn’t realize you’d actually witnessed it.”

  “We never talked about it.”

  They ignored the whistling kettle in the kitchen.

  “They laid out the bodies in the garden next to the hospital—too many for the morgue—dozens of them—or what was left of them. We had to chase the kids off. They were peeking through gaps in the fence. They must’ve had nightmares for years after that. They had to post policemen outside to keep them away. Later, from the ward, we watched a massive funeral pass along the waterfront. It was a dreadful sight.”

  “Oh, Charlotte. You poor dear.”

  “When he left last night, I thought to myself, ‘I have no idea whether you’ll come back.’ I will not live my life this way anymore, Olivia. It’s over. I don’t want to witness another funeral like that.”

  The kettle continued its howling.

  “I’m sorry,” Olivia said, getting
up. She went and made tea and returned to let it brew.

  “Olivia, You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  Olivia sighed and sat and thought for a while. Charlotte sensed Olivia was deciding whether to confide in her.

  “I spoke with Captain Booth’s wife about Bird. We’re pretty close. All this with the Cardington ship is making him ill. I asked her what would happen if Bird decided to give up flying—maybe we’d go and live in Ireland.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She asked Captain Booth and he said they’d make him fly it to India.”

  “I suppose they would. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Bird knows that and he wouldn’t shirk his responsibility and put it on another man like that.”

  “So, you’re worried?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s become a nightmare. The other day, before he went to work, he sat down on the edge of the bed, in his uniform, staring at the floor. I sat down beside him and put my arm around him and put my face against his. I begged him to give it up and he said ‘I must go on with it, Olivia, it’s my duty.’”

  “He really should give it up,” Charlotte said.

  Olivia went to the window, glaring at the overcast sky. When she turned, Charlotte saw, she, too, had tears in her eyes.

  “Duty! Duty! I’m bloody sick of it!” Olivia said, as she shuffled wearily into the kitchen. She returned with a tray of cups and a pot of tea. Olivia obviously had more on her mind.

  “He told me Millie Hinchliffe came and spoke to him. You’ve heard of her?”

  “Yes, she’s always in the papers. What did she say?”

  “She’d asked to meet him. He didn’t tell me at the time. Nothing in it, of course. He didn’t want to worry me. Bird and Captain Hinchliffe had been friends. She gave him messages from her husband telling him airships were a lost cause. Gradually, it told on him. It’s dragged him down ever since.”

  They sat and commiserated for another hour until Charlotte got up to leave. They hugged and Charlotte went home, leaving Olivia in a similar state of misery, but feeling her own now had resolution.