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

by David Dennington

  Thomson handed the report back to Knoxwood. “Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “That’s a blessed relief, sir,” Knoxwood said.

  Thomson peered outside. The weather over London was cloudy, but calm. They continued the journey northwards, retracing Lou’s route down.

  In the van, Binks and Church were anxious to find out what recordings Thomson had brought. Lou allowed them to take a peek. Church held the case on his knees and pulled each record up and read the label. The first three were operas, which he’d never heard of. He was disappointed, but then he got excited.

  “ 'Ere look at this! “I Wanna Be Loved by You”, “Bye, Bye Blackbird”, “Happy Days Are 'ere Again”, “Puttin’ on the Ritz”. Wow, ee’s a gay old dog!” Church exclaimed. “Who would have thought? And here’s “Somebody Stole My Gal” and “Singing in the Rain”—”

  “Sounds like we’re gonna have a party,” Binks said. “Yes sir!”

  The lads in the van continued on with new respect for the Minister of State for Air.

  They reached the village of Shefford as light was failing. Thomson checked his watch.

  “Ah, we’re running early and I’m dying for a cup of tea. What say you fellows?”

  “I don’t see why not, Minister,” Knoxwood said.

  “Look here. Teas and Hovis,” Thomson said, pointing at a small inn. Its black and white façade, tiled roof and soft, warm lights looked inviting.

  “The White Hart Inn. How quaint. Let’s stop here, driver,” Thomson said.

  The Daimler pulled into the gravel carpark with the van behind.

  “Bring all those chaps, Buck. Least I can do is buy everyone a cup of tea. I expect they could do with one.”

  At dusk, they reached the top of Hammer Hill on the Bedford Road. Thomson asked his driver to stop again. They were still early.

  “Let’s see how she looks from up here,” Thomson said, climbing out of the car.

  He walked to the crest of the hill. Everyone followed him. Two hundred and fifty feet below, the colossal, silver airship was a dazzling sight. She floated head to wind at the tower, bathed in light. Faint thumping sounds of a brass band were carried on the increasing winds from the west.

  Thomson turned to Lou. “Now, there’s our magic carpet, Commander! It’s taken almost a decade to fulfill this dream. But there she is in all her glory. Look at her. See how the light catches her—how she sparkles!”

  “You must be proud, sir,” Lou said.

  PART ELEVEN

  INDIA

  87

  GRAND FAREWELL

  Saturday October 4, 1930.

  Thomson’s Daimler slowed at the gate on the road to the tower. A cheer went up from the crowd. He waved grandly to everyone while the brass band hammered out another inspiring march. Today, he felt almost like royalty—perhaps this was the beginning of greater things to come. The airfield was surrounded by vehicles of every description, the atmosphere was one of celebration, despite the blustery weather.

  The multi-colored lights of the fair grew vivid in the falling darkness and carousel music added to the gaiety, as it competed with the um-par-par and thump-thump-thump of the brass band. Thomson glanced up and listened to laughter and screams from girls on the Ferris wheel.

  Their view of the ship must be wonderful.

  Thomson scanned the multitudes huddled along the fence, bundled up in overcoats, scarves and hats, backs to the wind. Those lucky enough to have cars remained inside, wrapped in blankets. Some dozed, having traveled many miles. Small clusters gathered around vendors selling hot chestnuts and jacket potatoes cooked on steel braziers over glowing coals. The tasty aroma wafted across the field, filling Thomson’s nostrils. It was comforting, and for a moment, he was reminded of his mother’s kitchen in Devonshire.

  Other vendors, poor souls without the comfort of heat, attempted to sell mementos from tables or boards lashed to the fence. “Postcards, postcards, come an’ get yer postcards ’ere. Two for threepence, ten for a bob,” one cried.

  “Keyrings and flags, only a shillin’. Come and get ’em!”

  “Lovely souvenirs, commeneratin’ this ’istorical event!”

  Thomson sympathized with the poor wretches. In this chilly wind, they were having a devil of a time preventing their wares being blown away. And in such hard times, few spectators had money to fritter away on souvenirs. Clowns mingled with the crowd, handing out flyers, enticing people into the fairground. One, in a bowler hat high above the crowd, wore colossal, billowing, black-and-red-striped trousers over stilts. Flowing white locks blew around his head. Thomson admired the man’s skill in such awful conditions.

  The Daimler slowed while the gate was opened, and the clowns gathered around the car, laughing and waving at Thomson. Amongst them, Thomson spotted Mrs. Hinchliffe, barging her way to the car. Obviously, she had something to say to him. He was irritated.

  “Driver, don’t stop.”

  He glanced at Knoxwood, who’d seen her, too.

  “I don’t want to talk to that woman!” Thomson grunted.

  The driver put his foot down and they sped through the gate. Another cheer went up.

  A BBC crew was waiting under the tower for him to make his appearance, ready to do a commentary on the departure of the airship and ask for his comments. Many in the nation were glued to their radios and millions around the world were following this extraordinary event.

  The car drew up. Thomson pulled out his wallet and took out a ten shilling note. “Here, Buck. Go back to the gate and pick up a few souvenirs. Get a couple for yourself, too,” he said. And then as an afterthought, “And don’t speak to that Hinchliffe woman, whatever you do.”

  “Right you are sir, absolutely.”

  Buck scampered off, clutching the money. The chauffeur opened the door and Thomson got out and waved to the crowd. Binks parked the van. As Thomson walked toward the BBC crew, his hat flew off and rolled on its rim across the field. Embarrassed, Thomson watched ground crewmen chase it down. He received the hat gratefully and replaced it on his head. He stood close to the BBC van and leaned on his walking stick. The reporters moved in.

  “…Lord Thomson has emerged from the limousine and many reporters are gathering around. We’ll listen to some of their questions...” the commentator said, moving closer. He thrust the microphone out toward Thomson and press photographers took pictures for tomorrow’s Sunday newspapers.

  “How do you feel about the flight, sir?”

  Thomson gazed up at the airship. “All my life, I’ve prepared myself for this moment.”

  “Any second thoughts?”

  “Absolutely none. There’s certainly nothing to fear,” Thomson answered.

  “The weather is kicking up, sir. Sure she can take it?”

  “This airship is as strong as the mighty Forth Bridge!”

  “Do you think your departure will be delayed?”

  “The experts will be looking at the weather. They’ll make that determination.”

  “Will you be making the whole voyage, bearing in mind you have a tight schedule?” George Hunter asked.

  “The Prime Minister has given me strict instructions to return by the twentieth of October. Yes, I’ll make the entire journey in this very fine airship.”

  Ground crewmen gathered around Lou, Binks and Church behind the van. Church flung the doors open.

  “Gordon Bennett!”

  “Cor blimey!”

  “S’truth!”

  “Bloody ‘ell!”

  “Holy smoke!”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “Someone’s gotta be jokin’!”

  Lou knew he’d better inform the captain—this would affect all his calculations. He climbed the tower steps, carrying Thomson’s case of records. He went to the lounge, where he locked it in the gramophone cabinet, then proceeded to the chartroom.

  Since early that morning Irwin, Atherstone and Johnston had been busy working on the ship’s lift calcul
ations. Its lifting capability had to be weighed against many complex issues which constantly affected it: air temperature, atmospheric density, purity of gas, fullness of gasbags, gas bag leakage, fuel load and projected rate of usage, ballast requirements and usage, likelihood of collecting water ballast (from rain) en route, duration of journey, altitude and the airship’s relation to terrain they’d be crossing, and of course, the weather. The task was daunting.

  Lou entered the chartroom as the three men poured over their figures. “Captain, we’ve just returned with Lord Thomson’s luggage. It’s quite a load. He’s brought everything but the kitchen sink.”

  Exasperated, Irwin threw down his pencil, went down the steps into the control car and glared down at the van. “Get all that stuff weighed. Don’t load anything before you let me know the exact weight and I give you permission,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lou went down the gangplank to the tower, where Sky Hunt leaned on the rail watching the activities. The ground crew laid Thomson’s carpet down on a tarpaulin. Buck stood keeping an eye on it as though it were the Shroud of Turin.

  “That could be the straw that breaks the camel’s bleedin' back,” Hunt muttered, shaking his head. Lou nodded in agreement and descended the stairs. He went to the stores foreman making out the load sheet.

  “Don’t put anything on board until it’s weighed and cleared by Captain Irwin,” he said. “Nothing!”

  On the ground, Lou found himself surrounded by much hugging and kissing and tearful goodbyes. It made him sad and a little bitter. He looked for Charlotte’s face in the crowd, even though he knew that was futile, but then a young RAF man came to speak to him.

  “Sir, are you Commander Remington?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s someone at the gate asking for you—says he’s your father. Should I let him in, or will you come out? We know most of these people,” he said, gesturing to the crewmen’s families, “but we haven’t seen this gentleman before and he has a north-country accent.”

  “I’ll come and talk to him,” Lou said. Obviously it wasn’t his dad, but maybe it was Charlotte’s father. His spirits soared as he marched quickly toward the fence. It was John Bull. He couldn’t help feeling disappointed, but didn’t allow it to show. The two men hugged.

  “John, you shouldn’t have driven all this way down here,” Lou said.

  “I had to come. I’ve been brooding all week. Mary said ‘Go on, John, you go and see him off.’ So here I am.”

  “That was thoughtful of you—you know I’m pleased to see you.”

  “Charlotte isn’t here anywhere, I suppose, is she?” John asked, peering around.

  “No, she’s washed her hands of me.”

  “I can’t believe that. I hope you’ll try and see her when you get back.”

  “I tried. I went to her parents’ house, but they wouldn’t open the door.”

  “Oh, no ...”

  “I’ll definitely visit you when I return. Then, I guess, I’ll head back to the States.”

  John was heartbroken. “God, I’m so sorry. Look, if anything changes—the cottage will always be yours, you know that.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  They shook hands and hugged again. John’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Good luck, son. Make sure you come back safe,” he said and then, turning away abruptly, he disappeared into the crowd.

  God, I’ll miss that man!

  A familiar voice spoke up behind him. “Good evening, Commander.”

  Brancker magically appeared next to Lou in John’s place. He carried a small case and held a pith helmet under his arm. With the flat of the other hand, he tried valiantly to hold down his toupée while screwing up his face to keep his monocle in its socket.

  “Sir Sefton,” Lou said, forcing a smile.

  To his surprise, among the crowd near the gate, Lou spotted her dark, shining hair—no mistaking those long, flowing locks down to her waist. She stood next to a young man about Lou’s age and build, her arm through his. Lou’s heart raced.

  Damn, she’s been in Bedford all this time!

  “Excuse me, Sir Sefton, I’ll be right back as soon as ...” Lou said, marching over to where she stood.

  “Charlotte!” he shouted as he approached.

  Her companion at first became confused and then hostile. The girl turned—she was nothing like Charlotte. In fact, her hair was auburn when he got up close—the light was wrong. He was bitterly disappointed, but relieved. Then he remembered—Charlotte had cut all her hair off.

  “I’m sorry, no offense. I thought you were my sister,” Lou said, holding up his hand.

  He returned to Brancker and they were joined by Mrs. Hinchliffe, who stepped out of the crowd. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said.

  “Millie. What on earth are you doing here?” Brancker said. “I’d give you a hug, but my hands are rather full.”

  “Then I’ll kiss you,” she said planting a kiss on his cheek. She smiled at Lou and kissed his lips. “I’ve come to tell you what Ray— ” she began.

  Brancker exploded. “Millie, Millie, don’t! Just go home! The ship will leave tonight. Thomson has decreed it.” He turned away from her. “Come, Lou, we must go. Goodbye, Millie!”

  Lou gave Mrs. Hinchliffe an apologetic smile. He’d not seen Brancker so on edge and the poor woman didn’t deserve it. He took Brancker’s case and they marched off through the gate to the tower with others who ambled trance-like toward the great beast. Maybe they were all under its evil spell. A clown appeared with a handful of flyers and stuffed one in Lou’s hand. Lou couldn’t help grinning as he read it.

  LET THE GREAT CLAIRVOYANT

  MADAM HARANDAH

  THE ROMANIAN GYPSY

  TELL YOUR FORTUNE

  PSYCHIC READING

  PALM READING

  TAROT CARDS

  3d each

  “What’s that?” Brancker asked.

  “It’s an invite to talk to a fortune teller from the Elephant and Castle,” Lou said. “Would you like to meet her?”

  “No, I don’t think I would.”

  “Mrs. Hinchliffe mentioned Ray …that’s her—”

  “Dead husband. I love Millie dearly, and she may be right, but we have our duty to do. Can’t be listening to all that stuff tonight. I’m depressed enough already.”

  “I guarantee you don’t need a session with Madame Harandah, in that case,” Lou said.

  “I had my fortune told in Paris once ...” Brancker began. He stopped in mid-sentence, seeming to think better of it.

  “What did they say, sir?” Lou asked, but Brancker didn’t answer.

  They walked to the tower passing Thomson, who was just finishing his press conference. His well-wishers were gathered around him shaking his hand. In that group were Dowding and his predecessor, Higgins, Richmond, Scott, members of the press, Knoxwood and many from the R.A.W. Colmore stood apart with his wife, seeming more relaxed than she. Lou moved to the elevator with Brancker where Bert Mann the elevator man waited with a cheery smile.

  “Good evening, Bert. I’m expecting a lady friend any time now—Lady Cathcart. When she arrives, show her to the gangplank. Tell her to follow the blue carpet, would you? Inform her I’ll be waiting. We’re having a little leaving party,” Brancker said winking.

  “I can do that, Sir Sefton. No problem at all, sir.”

  “Before I go up, I’d better have a word with Lord Thomson,” Brancker said. But Thomson had already spotted Brancker and was approaching with hands outstretched. They greeted each other like long lost brothers.

  “Ah, Sefton, good evening! Lovely to see you, my dear chap.” The two men stood smiling and shaking hands while photographers’ cameras flashed.

  “Come on, everyone. Gather round. Let’s get some nice group pictures. Get as many crewmen in as possible,” Thomson instructed.

  While they were taking a third picture, eight ground crewmen trooped past with Thomson’s Per
sian balanced on their shoulders. Irwin appeared from the tower staircase, his face contorted with anger, vividly pale in the searchlights' glare. Thomson was quick to spot him marching stiffly toward the men with the carpet. Thomson raised his voice above the wind, spiking Irwin’s guns.

  “Ah, there you are, Captain Irwin. Please join us.”

  “What the hell is this?” Irwin demanded, gesturing at the heavy roll in disbelief.

  “Why, this is my talisman. It flies with us. We’ll lay it down for the banquet in honor of the King of Egypt. We’ll do things in style. Now come and stand next to me Irwin, there’s a good chap.”

  Irwin fumed, but did as he was told. Everyone dutifully gathered around for more photos. In the next few hours Lou would come to fully appreciate what a truly intimidating presence Thomson could be and what a skilled manipulator he was. Brancker picked up his belongings and headed for the elevator.

  Lou stood posing until he could slip away. He went over to Colmore and his wife, who had her arm linked through his. Colmore grinned. “Not sure if you’ve met Mrs. Colmore, Lou,” he said.

  “You were in church last year—for the blessing,” Lou said.

  Mrs. Colmore smiled. She had a sweet face and she obviously doted on her husband. Her eyes shone with love each time she looked at him.

  “I’m always relaxed when this man’s around,” Colmore said.

  “I know you are, my darling.” She glanced at Lou, seeming almost convinced.

  “He’s my special assistant and our third officer. He’s also our American observer, as Zachary Lansdowne had been on Scottie’s voyage to America.”

  “And where is Mr. Lansdowne these days?” Mrs. Colmore asked innocently.

  Lou bit his tongue.

  Killed on the Shenandoah with Josh.

  “Er, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better check on that girl over there. She’ll have news of my injured crewman. It was good seeing you again, ma’am,” Lou said, with a slight bow, touching his cap. Irene and Church were locked in a tearful embrace, while Church’s mother and father stood by. Irene noticed Lou approaching and tore herself away.