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

by David Dennington

  Charlotte took a bus to Bedford Station after leaving Olivia’s house, to check on train times to Wakefield. While at the station, she ordered a taxi for Friday morning. On her way home, she went into the chemist’s shop and bought a large pair of scissors.

  She got home around 6 o’clock and sat in front of her dressing table mirror with the scissors. After swinging wildly at a bluebottle intent on annoying her, she began snipping. With Fluffy watching closely from the bed, she started at the top by her left ear and cut her hair off in great swaths. Charlotte turned and glared at the cat.

  “What are you looking at Fluff?” she said.

  The cat remained silent.

  “You really miss him, don’t you? I guess you’re his cat. I wonder if you’ll miss me.”

  Her thick, shiny locks fell to the floor around her feet and after half an hour they looked like the remains of a dead animal lying there. An hour later, she had a bob-cut, finally—short as a boy’s. She took a hand mirror from the drawer and inspected the back. It was pretty uneven, but it would have to do. She picked up the hair and threw it in a brown bag and placed it in the bottom of a suitcase on the bed. What would Lou say? It didn’t matter.

  She spent the evening sorting out drawers and clothes and items to wash, including some of Lou’s things. She went to bed early and slept soundly for the first time in months. She got up at six and cleaned the house from top to bottom until late into the night, stopping occasionally to chase the irritating bluebottle that was always just out of reach. It became a battle of wits.

  “Damn you!” she shouted.

  The following morning she stripped the bed, washed the sheets and pillowcases and hung them on the line in the garden. By midday, they were dry, before the rain came. She ironed them and put them back on the bed and then spent the rest of the day packing.

  That evening, Charlotte laid a small, black suitcase on the bed. She opened the ‘baby’s drawer’ and pulled out the clothes she’d made over the years. While rummaging around and pulling out a collection of old Christmas and birthday cards, she found Bobby’s message from R38. It was still in its cardboard tube buried at the back of the drawer. She pulled out the note, wincing as she read it.

  Marry me and come away. I promise to love you forever. Bobby.

  “Pathetic! Wasted lives!” she said aloud.

  She replaced it in the tube and put it on the bed, making up her mind to find Elsie and give it to her. Though pointless, she owed it to that foolish girl.

  Her child must be almost ten now. God!

  She held up a woolen shawl, examining it through tears, her face deathly white in the mirror. The shawl smelled of mothballs. She roughly folded it and flung it into the suitcase. She did the same with the rest of the clothes, unwrapping them and throwing them in the case. After screwing up the tissue, she took it down to the dustbin and threw it out with the cards and a heap of half-used cosmetics. Dumping the cards was bit of a wrench, but there was no point in keeping them, and that was not half as bad as what she had to do next.

  Around midnight, she put on a headscarf, left the house with the suitcase and walked to the ancient bridge, and although the roads were deserted, she sensed she was being watched. She walked to the middle and looked down into the river, swollen by rain. She listened to the swirling, babbling water. After looking around and seeing no one, she dropped the suitcase over the stone balustrade. She leaned over and watched it splash into the water in the moonlight. It floated for a moment and then moved from side to side in the current before disappearing into the depths. She stood staring at the spot for a few minutes feeling drained—as after an exorcism, or more accurately, a water burial. She wept.

  There, it’s done. It’s over at last.

  She felt a weight, or not so much a weight as an expectation, had been lifted and torn away—one that couldn’t be fulfilled, but which had finally been confronted and eradicated. Charlotte trudged home and slept fitfully on the couch, grieving for her phantom child and for a husband who was as good as dead.

  The next morning was overcast and chilly. She spent time going around making sure everything was in its place with no sign of her existence. The exception was the collection of framed photos, which she had dusted and left where they were. She didn’t want them. She took down his guitar from the wall in the bedroom and dusted and polished it until it shone. She stared at it before carefully replacing it. That thing had made him so happy and she’d worked so hard to get it for him. She could hear it now. Oh, how he could play! He made it sing. He made it cry. The sound of it had often made her weep. But not now. Not anymore.

  The last thing she did was to dust and polish her precious piano. She made that shine, too. When she’d finished, she stood back to look at it. She thought about taking it somehow, but couldn’t cope with it. Maybe when she was settled he’d have it sent to her. The thought of leaving John Bull’s present behind made her feel bad about John—like a spit in the eye.

  The taxi arrived ten minutes early. She put on her cloche hat and went down and asked the driver to take her cases. She was standing at the bottom step when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

  “You’re leavin ’im then, ain’tcha?”

  Charlotte spun around and stared into the face of Jessup. For the first time in years, she studied that face, noticing the scar. It was on the opposite side to Lou’s. She found him attractive in a repulsive way, as many women did, even with his twisted jaw. Strange. His manner was humble. This was certainly new.

  Maybe he’s changed.

  “He’s no good, you know. He done me out of my rightful place on that ship. I was in the crew an’ everythin’. He got me kicked off.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “It wasn’t right what he done to me.”

  “That has nothing to do with me.”

  “I want you to know, I still love you, Charlotte, despite all the beatings and suffering he put me through. I’d endure it all again for you. I love you and always will. I want to say how sorry I am for all the upset I’ve caused you. I’m a changed man. I walk with the Lord now. I have accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior.”

  The taxi driver approached them. “And this one, too, miss?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The driver worked his way around Jessup, who stood in his way. He gave Jessup and irritated glance as he picked up the other case.

  “Will you both be traveling, miss?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Charlotte, give me a chance. I’m not really a bad person, you know. I never had much of a chance really, what with me dad an’ all.”

  Charlotte showed him mild indifference—not the usual complete brush off.

  “I’ve got the baby clothes. I rescued them from the river. They’re all at ’ome with me landlady, dryin’ out. I saw you throw ’em in the river last night. I dived in and saved them for you, Charlotte.”

  “You did what!” Charlotte screamed, her eyes wide in disbelief

  The taxi driver was getting impatient. He kept looking over at them. Jessup responded with a venomous glare. The driver looked away, scared stiff.

  “You need to be with me, Charlotte. We could ’ave a family. There’s nought wrong with me, you know.”

  Charlotte shut the front door with a bang and walked toward the taxi.

  Hearing Charlotte’s front door, Mrs. Jones came out and stood on her top step. Jessup hung around, following Charlotte with pleading eyes. Then Church’s girlfriend, Irene, showed up. She gave Jessup a funny look and rushed to Charlotte as she was climbing into the taxi.

  “Charlotte—”

  “I’m sorry, Irene. I can’t stop,” Charlotte said, not meeting her eye.

  “Are you all right? I just—”

  “I’ve got a train to catch. I’m really sorry,” Charlotte said, slamming the door.

  As the taxi pulled away, she glanced at Mrs. Jones and Irene, who both looked very concerned. Fluffy sat on Mrs. Jones’s windows
ill staring at her with accusing, green eyes.

  74

  ROSIE

  Sunday August 17, 1930.

  At 9 o’clock Sunday morning, Lou woke up with a groan as the alarm clock made its ugly sound. He’d slept uneasily and when he came round, the nightmare hit him again, sending him into a freefall.

  She’s gone.

  Fluffy lay beside him. She stretched herself and nuzzled his face. He stared at the photo on the chest of drawers with both sadness and bitterness. He remembered exactly when the picture was taken. Charlotte had sat on the five bar gate opposite her parents’ house on Station Road during his first visit to Ackworth, while he stood beside her. They both looked very happy—and they were happy. It was Lou’s favorite photo, and he’d put it in a special gold frame. Charlotte’s dad had snapped it with his Brownie.

  He went down to the kitchen and let Fluffy out, then made coffee. A knock came at the front door. Mrs. Jones stood on the step with a shopping bag of groceries. By her expression, she must have been aware of events of the past couple of weeks.

  “There was a lot of glass on the steps. I cleaned it up,” Mrs. Jones said.

  Lou had forgotten. “Oh yeah, I dropped a bottle of wine. I’m sorry.”

  “Lou, can I—” she began.

  “Sure come in, Mrs. Jones. Come and have a cuppa Joe with me.”

  “All right. Your milk’s here on the step. I’ll bring it in,” she said. She handed him the shopping bag. “I picked up a few things for you.” They went down to the kitchen. “Charlotte told me the milkman would start delivering again this morning.”

  “That was real nice of her!” Lou said. He placed the groceries on the table, poured out the coffee and put the milk in a jug.

  “I’m so sorry, Lou.”

  “Did she talk to you?”

  “I knocked on the door the morning you left, but I got no answer.”

  “Probably asleep,” Lou said.

  “She came and talked to me the Friday before she left in a cab. Gave me money for cat food. Fluffy’s been living with us while you were away. She’s such a sweet cat.”

  Lou kept his face expressionless.

  “Charlotte didn’t say a lot, except she was leaving and wasn’t coming back.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No, I didn’t like to pry—but I wish I had now.”

  “Don’t worry. Did she say why?”

  “She said she’d been unhappy for a long time—that was all. And I must say she looked very sad. But you know, she often seemed like that to me—like something was gnawing away at her inside.”

  “She was desperate for a kid.”

  “I don’t know, Lou. It seemed more than that, to me.”

  Lou felt depressed hearing all this from a neighbor. Charlotte had been low, but he hadn’t realized the extent of her unhappiness. Now everybody knew.

  “I thought we could sort things out. I guess I was wrong.”

  “If you find out where she is, you can talk to her—you must!”

  “She’s probably at her mom’s place. She said clearly in a letter her mind’s made up. She’s a stubborn Yorkshire girl.”

  “Oh, dear. Lou, please don’t give up.”

  “You’re very kind, Mrs. J.”

  “She gave me the key and asked me to get some shopping in for you. I didn’t bring it in. I didn’t like to.”

  “Thank you.”

  She finished her coffee and stood up. “The girl’s mad, going off like that,” she said.

  “She’s unhappy, and I’m to blame,” Lou said.

  “Takes two to tango, love—that’s what I say.”

  When Mrs. Jones had gone, Lou stared out the window at the sunlight on the flowers. Charlotte must have planted them this spring. He hadn’t noticed them before. He took out the pad from the writing case she’d given him and sat trying to put his thoughts together while the mind-numbing tap dripped in the sink. Finally, he began.

  My Dearest Charlotte,

  I found your note when I came home and I was devastated. I looked forward to coming home and seeing your lovely face at the door. You have no idea how much I have been longing for you. I had lots of time to think and wanted to surprise you with some definite plans when I got back. I suppose that’s all out the window now—unless you don’t mean the things you said. When you said in your letter you didn’t love me anymore, it was unthinkable to me—I believed our love was forever. Please say it isn’t true and please meet me and let’s talk—I’m sure we can work things out, if we try ...

  Lou glanced at the time: 11:30 a.m. already. He needed to get going. He’d finish it later. He put on his uniform and went down to the front door, gathering up the dying violets on the hall table. He took them out and threw them in the dustbin. When he reached Cardington, the gatekeeper glanced at him with what Lou took to be sympathy. He wasn’t sure.

  “Mornin', Lou,” he said.

  “Hi, Jim. What’s up? Everything okay?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d been expecting another officer this morning, but no one showed up. The watch crewmen are on the ship, though.”

  “I’m supposed to come on at noon.”

  “Something else is a bit funny.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That Mrs. Cameron came through here earlier dressed up to the nines. Said she had something for her husband. I’m certain he’s not on the base—bit fishy if you ask me.”

  “I’ll find out what’s going on. Thanks, Jim.”

  Lou rode up the driveway passing Cardington House and coasted silently over to the fence. He left the motorbike and walked across the field to the tower, climbing noiselessly up the stairs and gangplank. He heard shouting and laughing as he moved along the ship’s corridor.

  The place was a disgusting mess. Empty bottles of Canadian Club, various bottles of spirits and beer lay on their sides on the dining room tables on a carpet of bread crumbs, crackers and scraps of cheese. The noise was coming from the promenade deck on the port side. He stood at the opening.

  Disheveled, unshaven watch-crewmen sat slumped on the loungers, couches and easy chairs, their feet on tables. It was Jessup’s crowd. A fat lout in his twenties spotted Lou. He downed the remnants of a beer and released a loud belch.

  “Aye, look what the cat’s dragged in, lads,” he said, his mouth curling into a sneer.

  “It’s our old mate, Lucky Lou,” a tall, skinny one said, waking from a stupor on a couch.

  “What’s ’appened to the other big shots? No one’s been ’ere all day but us,” said one with a Birmingham accent, his face sallow and spotted like a frog.

  “But you don’t need to worry, mate. Everything’s under control. Come and have a drink,” the fat one said.

  “What the hell do you men think you’re doing?” Lou shouted.

  “Easy, Lou, me old pal—or should I say, Lieutenant Commander, Third Officer, United States Navy, sir!” the skinny one said.

  “You’re supposed to be on watch,” Lou said.

  “Yeah, so we are on watch, ain’t we? See us ’ere!” said another with rotten, goofy teeth.

  “We’re just having a little drink. It’s Sunday—the day of rest. Relax. Come on, sit down and ’ave a drink, me boy.”

  “He’s got nothin’ to go ’ome for, ’as he?” the fat one said, roaring with laughter.

  “You men are a disgrace,” Lou said.

  The fat one and the goofy one got up and moved toward him.

  “Perhaps the fancy Navy man’s going to get us all in trouble,” the goofy one said.

  “Trouble? You have no idea what trouble you’re in,” Lou muttered.

  “We’re not in your precious bleedin’ Navy, Lou, me old cock,” the goofy one said, putting one hand on his hip and shaking his backside around.

  “Go on, Micky, give ’im one!” someone said.

  Goofy moved in, but Lou stopped him with a blow under the chin which lifted him off his feet. He crumpled to the fl
oor out cold, minus a few teeth, which fell on the floor like gravel. The other five rushed at Lou, but were surprised by a great shout from the dining saloon.

  “That’s enough!” It was Capt. Irwin. “Step back and get in here, all of you,” he bellowed.

  “Very merchant service!” Sky Hunt, shouted from behind Irwin.

  “Very merchant service indeed, Mr. Hunt!” Atherstone echoed.

  The five crewmen did as they were told, rapidly sobering up, fear registering in their faces. Hunt tilted his head back, sniffing the air.

  “Apart from whisky and beer, there’s something else I smell,” he said.

  The five sorry crewmen glanced at one another, their worries compounded. Sky Hunt left the dining saloon and marched off to the officers’ cabins. In a few moments, he was back, dragging Rosie Cameron by the wrist. She wore only her brassiere and a pair of pink knickers. In her other hand she clung to the rest of her clothes and a pair of high heels. Jessup slunk behind, putting his braces over his shoulders. He glanced across at Lou and smirked.

  “Out, you little whore!” Sky Hunt roared.

  Rosie bolted.

  “You might have let her put some clothes on, Mr. Hunt,” Irwin said.

  “I did,” Hunt replied.

  “There’s gonna be an inquiry and charges,” Irwin thundered.

  “They’ve broken into the ship’s bar and all the officers’ lockers—add that to the charges. They’ve stolen all Steff’s Canadian Club,” Hunt said.

  “And drunk it, by the looks of it,” Atherstone said, surveying the empty brown bottles lying everywhere.

  “He struck one of our crewmen,” the skinny one whined, pointing at Lou.

  “And you men are all drunk!” Irwin said.

  “All right you lot, on yer bikes!” Hunt snapped.

  Later, Lou went home to finish his letter. Irwin had asked him to come by Putroe Lane later for something to eat, but he declined. He sat at the table with a mug of coffee, brooding. His dark thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Jones knocking at the door again. She came in carrying a plate of sandwiches covered with a clean tea towel.