by John Masters
Harry Rowland sat at dinner, at home, with his two elder sons and their wives.
‘How’s Alice?’ Richard asked his father. ‘Susan saw her a week ago, and she seemed depressed.’
‘She still isn’t quite over the drug withdrawal, the doctor says,’ Harry said. ‘But I think it’s mainly impatience. She wants so badly to get her artificial leg, so that she can start learning to walk with it. And she’s started a correspondence course in bookkeeping. She’s going to work for you at Hedlington Aircraft, isn’t she?’
Richard said, ‘Yes. We have a good secretary, but we need a specialist bookkeeper, too, the way we are expanding. The first production Buffalo is going to fly within six months, test models earlier …’
‘Is that the one that’s going to drop bombs on Berlin?’ John asked.
Richard said, ‘Yes. Probably with J & G engines. That’s Jones & Gatewood, a firm in Connecticut which Stephen Merritt’s bank bought out in the spring, and have converted to making engines exclusively for aircraft … so far all air-cooled radials – radials, not rotaries. We’re expecting a dozen next month for trials and fitting to the Buffalo air frame … Oh, by the way, you know that motor cycle Bob Stratton was working on, to break the world’s 1000cc and all comers’ speed record? We flew it to France, to Frank Stratton, in a Leopard that we were delivering to the R.F.C. He’s going to work on it, I imagine.’
‘He’ll break the record, then,’ Harry said. ‘He’s a better man with engines even than Bob was.’
Louise Rowland, impatient at the men’s talk of machines and engines, asked her father-in-law, ‘How’s Mrs Stallings doing as housekeeper?’
‘Very well,’ Harry said. ‘She can’t do as much cooking as she used to, of course, but I’m not here most of the week so it works out all right.’
He drank some wine, looking round from his position at the head of the table. Susan and Louise sat at his sides, John and Richard beyond them. Dinner was nearly over, and he saw Susan glancing at Louise, to catch her eye. He said, ‘Don’t leave us, ladies, I want to talk to all of you. This war is not just a men’s affair, as we have all learned, to our cost … The Prime Minister has asked me and two other back benchers to go to France and look over the situation there. I shall do my best to see Quentin, Guy, Boy, Laurence – and Naomi – but can’t guarantee that I will have the time, or the opportunity … Now, I want your frank opinions … What do you think of our war policy?’
No one spoke for a time, then Louise said, ‘We must beat the Germans in France. If we try to win by other means, we’ll only have to face them again, later. That’s what Boy said when he was home last.’
Harry looked at John, whose face was sad and worried. John said, ‘I think we ought to state our war aims, and ask the Germans to state theirs … declare an armistice, one-sided if necessary … appoint Commissioners for both sides to hammer out some sort of compromise between us…’
Richard said, ‘The stated war aims – and war claims – are going to be exaggerated. There’ll never be an agreement.’
‘But there won’t be any slaughter while we argue. And once it stops, no one will have the nerve to start it again.’
‘Leaving us just where we happen to be now – Alsace, Lorraine, and large parts of northern France in German hands, Rumania occupied, Serbia torn to pieces … All that will lead to another war, with still more horrible weapons, in twenty or thirty years.’
‘Perhaps,’ John said doggedly, ‘but anything’s better than what’s happening now.’
Harry looked at Susan, ‘You haven’t spoken yet. What do you think?’
Susan said, ‘I know it’s horrible … but I think we’d better get it over with. I’m a Republican, but I think Mr Wilson was right – we must make the world safe for democracy, at whatever cost.’
Richard said, ‘I don’t think the trouble is in France, Father. It’s at home – the unions sticking to peacetime restrictive practices … bad procurement procedures by management … No one thinks big enough. I’m ready to make five hundred four-engined bombers by next autumn, with a radius of action of 650 miles … They’d end the war in a month! But 30 bombers won’t, nor yet 40.’
John said, ‘It isn’t only the slaughter … It’s the brutalization, the degradation of our society … Bertrand Russell was telling us about walking on the South Downs, and afterward going into Lewes to catch a train back to London, and the station being full of soldiers, all drunk, mostly with prostitutes, everyone despairing, drunk, mad … because they were going back to France.’
Louise said sharply, ‘At least they were going back, while Mr Russell – the aristocratic philosopher looking down his nose at the brutal and licentious protectors of his freedom – wasn’t going back to France, just back to a warm bed with Lady Ottoline Morrell or Colette.’
They were all silent, a little shocked by the vehemence of Louise’s outburst. Louise added, more quietly, ‘Men who fight in France are to be forgiven their excesses, not sneered at by aristocratic cowards.’
Harry said gently, ‘Perhaps, my dear Louise, we must also forgive the excesses of those who are working, after all, for peace. Even Winston Churchill, who positively revels in war – not the killing, but the sense of purpose, the energy, the doing – is willing to admit the nobility of purpose of such as Bertrand Russell, Clifford Allen, and their followers.’
Louise said, ‘You’re right, Father … I’m sorry, but …’
Harry interrupted – ‘Let’s get back to the subject… my subject, at any rate … What do you think of Field Marshal Haig?’
Again it was Louise who spoke first – ‘I think he’s the best man we have. The soldiers trust him … though Boy didn’t think much of some of the other generals, under him … so we must trust him, too.’
Richard said, ‘I agree, on the whole. I don’t think anyone else could do better. He’ll see us through.’
Susan said, ‘I am not sure. If it’s true that many of the subordinate generals are poor, why doesn’t Field Marshal Haig replace them? Who else can do it, or should?’
Harry thought, I am no forrader than I was after listening to Churchill and Lloyd George. Reading Lord Northcliffe’s newspapers didn’t help, either. He’d have to make up his mind for himself. He said, ‘Ring the bell, please, John, and we’ll go through and have our coffee in the drawing room.’
But at that moment old Parrish came into the room, bent beside Harry’s chair, and muttered, ‘Telephone, for you, sir.’
‘Who is it?’
‘A Mrs Bodding,’ Parrish said.
Harry had never heard of her; but left the dining room with an apology and went to the telephone, in the hall. He put the receiver to his ear and said, ‘Harry Rowland speaking.’
The voice at the other end was broad Woman of Kent, speaking unhurriedly, ‘Mister Rowland, I’m Mrs Bodding, the midwife in Beighton. Mrs Merritt’s waters has broke and she’s in bed now.’
‘What, what?’ Harry said excitedly. He knew that Stella’s baby was due – a few days overdue, in fact – but the press of national problems had pushed it to the back of his mind. ‘Has labour started yet?’
‘Yes, sir. But the pains are still over a quarter of an hour apart. I’ve called on the telephone to Dr Kimball, but I don’t think the baby will come quickly, mind. With first ones it usually takes longer.’
‘Good, good,’ Harry said. ‘Tell Dr Kimball to call me when he arrives, please.’
‘That I will, sir.’
Harry waited in his library, standing, the door open, listening to old Parrish’s discreet footsteps approaching down the hall, accompanied by the ponderous creaking of another, heavier, more powerful man, his boots smacking down with purpose. Their shadows fell across the door, and Parrish said, ‘Mr William Hoggin, sir.’
‘Come in, Hoggin,’ Harry said. ‘Take a seat. I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. Do enough sitting in London. Wear out the seat of my trousers.’
‘Ha, ha!’ Hoggin laughed dutiful
ly.
‘Well, what can I do for you?’ Harry asked. Hoggin was an important man in Hedlington now – the richest man in the town and its chief benefactor; but that didn’t mean he had to like him, or put up with his company for longer than was necessary.
Hoggin sat forward on the edge of his chair … that’s where Richard was sitting the day I told him I was not going to retire, at the beginning of the war, Harry thought. Hoggin said, ‘We – myself and the other directors of H.U.S.L. – Hoggin’s Universal Stores Limited – would like you to join us on the board, Mr Rowland.’
Harry made to speak but Hoggin raised a thick, hairy-backed hand – ‘’Ear me out, Mr Rowland … We have twenty-four H.U.S.L. shops now in hoperation. By the end of the next year our goal is one hundred … and we’ll have them. Our business is in the millions now. Next year it’ll be in the tens of millions – ’undreds, perhaps. As soon as the war’s over, it’ll grow more, and quicker.’
‘What about competition?’ Harry asked.
Hoggin said, ‘We’re going to have it, Mr Rowland. We have some now. But we’re going to beat it. If anyone’s going to go under, it ain’t going to be Bill Hoggin … nor his H.U.S.L. We pay directors well, Mr Rowland … not only with money but with options to buy common shares at par, when they’re selling for three and four times par on the Stock Exchange.’
Harry considered. He was not averse to earning some more money. Much of it would be taxed, in any case, to pay for the war. But how much time would he be able to spare for his duties as director? What did Hoggin want him for, anyway? Well, that was easy. An M.P. was always a good ally to have for a man like Hoggin. He wondered how Hoggin had managed, first, to get himself appointed as an expert adviser to a committee primarily looking into the operations of such as he; and then steered the committee into agreeing to dissolve itself, with self-congratulations all round. Swanwick had been in the Lords team on that committee … which might have had something to do with it, as he was now Chairman of H.U.S.L.
To Hoggin he said finally, ‘Your proposal flatters me, Mr Hoggin, and interests me, I confess … but I must refuse it. I do not have the time to serve on your board.’
‘That don’t matter,’ Hoggin said eagerly. ‘Lord Swanwick hardly ever turns up. It’s just ’is name we want, see.’
‘And that’s all you want of me?’ Harry said with a touch of acid.
‘Oh now, Mr Rowland, his Lordship’s not a business man, now, is he? But you are … just your advice, whenever you want to give it. You’ll be worth your keep, don’t you fear.’
Harry said, again, ‘I’m sorry, I must refuse. But I wish you all prosperity and further success. As a constituent of mine, your interests will always be my concern.’
Hoggin stood up and said, ‘One thing more, Mr Rowland. I made a considerable contribution to Mr Lloyd George early this year – a hundred thousand quid, it was …’ Ah, Harry thought, here’s the milk in the coconut. Hoggin continued, ‘I’m ready to give him some more. ’Ow could I get him to accept it … from my own hands, like?’
Harry considered. Lloyd George had a private fund, he knew, for which he was not accountable to anyone. It was large, it came from many sources and none of it went into the official coffers of the Liberal Party or of His Majesty’s Government. He said, ‘May I ask how much you are considering donating this time – in strict confidence, of course.’
‘Three quarters of a million spondulicks,’ Hoggin said.
Harry whistled silently. Lloyd George would certainly see Hoggin personally for that. He looked at Hoggin, thinking – he doesn’t do anything without getting something in return. Now, what on earth was his asking price for this huge sum? Suddenly he guessed, and knew his guess was correct. He said, ‘I’ll speak to the Prime Minister myself, tomorrow. I expect you will receive a summons from him soon after.’
‘You’re going back to London tomorrow?’
Harry nodded, and Hoggin said, ‘So I’ll hear from Mr Lloyd George Tuesday or Wednesday. Good … Well, thanks, Mr Rowland. Sorry you won’t join us. Any time you change your mind, just call me on the telephone.’
Harry, Craddock and Mackenzie sat in the Savoy Grill, eating roast pheasant with Alfred Charles William Harmsworth, Viscount Northcliffe, owner of The Times and the Daily Mail. Northcliffe was laying down the law – ‘The man you must see is Charteris, Haig’s Chief of Intelligence. He knows all the intrigues that are going on against Haig. He can warn you of specious arguments … whom to listen to, whom to take with a pinch of salt.’ He said suddenly – ‘Winston Churchill has been getting at you, has he?’
‘He’s spoken to me,’ said all three members of Parliament, simultaneously.
‘Ah!’ Northcliffe said, almost snarling. ‘He’s an example, on this side of the Channel, of what I mean … always trying to find a way round, instead of facing the music and beating the Huns. He’d have that Jew Monash in if he had the power. Thank God he doesn’t, not even now that he’s back in the Cabinet. I gave Lloyd George a piece of my mind over that, I can assure you. I told him …’
Harry stifled a yawn in his glass of champagne. There might be suffering in the trenches, but not here. He saw several officers in uniform in the room, both Navy and Army, but mostly it was full of civilians – and mostly they were middle-aged, sleek, fat, gold watch chains stretched across the smoothly curving paunches. The air reeked with the savoury odours of roast meats and game, the tang of wine. Glasses clinked, silver glittered, white damask napery shone.
‘…You must impress on Charteris that newspaper correspondents – even those of other papers – must be allowed to see Haig regularly. I intend making him a national hero, and it doesn’t matter whether he wishes it or not – it has to be, so that the people here at home will trust him.’
‘He hates publicity,’ Mackenzie said.
Northcliffe said, ‘He’s going to get it.’
Harry said, ‘Are you not afraid, Lord Northcliffe, that if you make Haig too large a hero figure, that the Prime Minister will take instant measures to replace him?’
Northcliffe looked sharply at him – ‘So you’ve seen through our little Welshman’s native character, have you? … Yes, it’s possible. But I think I can make him understand that if he does, we’ll raise such a row – my brother and I – that his own head will roll the day after … I … I … I…’
He awoke in the middle of the night to the insistent shrilling of the telephone in his son Tom’s flat in Half Moon Street, where he was staying. He got up, pulled on his dressing gown and went to the instrument.
‘Hullo? Harry Rowland here.’
‘Harry, Leonard Kimball here … Sorry to wake you up. Stella had a girl, five pounds and an ounce, about four hours ago.’
‘Wonderful!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘Is Stella all right?’
‘Not as well as I would like, but nothing serious, as far as I can make out. But the baby’s in a bad way… it’s having quite severe shaking tremors and apnea – stoppages of breathing … that’s fairly normal at this stage, but I must confess I don’t like it. I’m having the baby taken to Hedlington Hospital at once. Stella will stay here … Sorry not to give you better news.’
‘It’s all right, Leonard,’ Harry said. ‘Do all you can.’
‘Of course.’
Harry hung up and went slowly back to bed. He’d known Leonard Kimball for, what – thirty-five years now. Perhaps Stella should have gone to a gynaecologist, as young women were beginning to do these days. But Rose never had, nor Margaret nor Fiona or Louise … Susan had, but she was American…
Harry dressed slowly after his bath. General Charteris had allotted a soldier servant to each of the three M.P.s, and his clothes had been laid out on the bed. Their rooms were spacious, the beds comfortable, and though there was no central heating in the old château, coal fires blazed in the grate in each bedroom.
Eight o’clock … he had slept from five till seven, after coming back from the Front. It was his age that had made him d
og tired … and what he had seen … and what he had not seen. They had brought Boy out of the line and he had been able to speak to him for ten minutes; but Boy was obviously anxious to get back, perhaps resentful that he had had to trudge and drive so far – for what? Harry had taken him aside and asked him point blank – ‘Do you have trust in Field Marshal Haig?’; and Boy had answered, ‘Yes, Grandfather.’ Then – ‘Do the men?’; and the same answer – ‘Yes, Grandfather.’ So what was wrong? Why were we suffering these huge casualties and making such small gains? ‘It’s the damned staff,’ Boy had said. ‘They mess everything up.’ And, after a few more words, he’d saluted and started back … haggard, filthy, caked with mud, his groundsheet cape glistening in the rain, water dripping off the rim of his steel helmet.
He’d seen Guy, briefly, at an airfield, between ‘shows.’ Guy’s smile was frightening now, for only one side of his mouth curled up, the other staying down; and there was a long scar along the cheekbone, and a torn ear on that side. Guy thought Field Marshal Haig was doing the job as well as anyone could.
He had not seen Naomi. Nor Quentin, though the Corps commander had said he could easily be ordered back if Harry wanted to speak to him; but Boy had brought Quentin’s message – ‘Uncle Quentin says he’s sorry, Grandfather, but he can’t leave the battalion now, even for half a day.’
But he had seen a lieutenant colonel of the Coldstream Guards, who’d told him that in his opinion the offensive must be continued, to prevent the Germans from attacking the weakened French. Harry had heard that before; he had not heard something else the colonel told him – that Captain the Viscount Cantley was dead, killed in action at Poelcapelle two days before. Poor Swanwick, he thought, he’ll take it hard, and so will Barbara and Helen and the Countess.
He himself was taking it hard – harder than over the death of Stella’s baby, he acknowledged. He had, after all, known Cantley since he was a child, while he’d never even seen Stella’s poor mite, died of natural causes – that beastly apnea, causing tremors and convulsions, and eventually suffocation after barely forty-eight hours of life. He could feel sad for Stella, but the baby … poor Cantley, gone, doing his duty.