Bardie sneers.
‘You mean its tittle-tattle!’
‘Call it tittle-tattle if you like, but listen to this; it is so French. Madame Caillaux is quite a girl. She is married to Joseph Caillaux, the French Finance Minister. Three months ago, Le Figaro printed a private letter, written by her husband, which was politically very damaging; something about a dodgy tax deal, with him in it up to his neck.’
Bardie and Geordie are listening now; there is nothing like a political scandal over breakfast.
‘So Madame Caillaux is incensed and thinks her husband should challenge the editor of Le Figaro, a Monsieur Gaston Calmette, to a duel. Hubby thinks not; perhaps he’s not a very good shot, or just a bloody coward. So Madame marches into the newspaper offices and asks to see Calmette, but he’s out. So she calmly sits down in reception and waits for him for over an hour. There she is, sitting decorously, smiling sweetly at all who pass, but with a Browning pistol hidden in her fur muff! When poor old Calmette returns, she is shown to his office, where she tells him he’s a scoundrel and bloody well empties the Browning’s magazine into him. She puts six bullets in the bugger!’
Both Bardie and Geordie are open-mouthed.
‘Dead?’
‘Of course he is, dead as a proverbial door nail.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Hang on, chaps, wait for the best bit. With pandemonium breaking out all around her, she doesn’t try to make an escape, but puts the pistol back in her muff, walks back to reception and sits back down again. When the police arrive, she confesses all, stressing that she used all six bullets to be sure that le bâtard was dead! She then refuses to be taken to the police station in a Black Maria but, with the police acting as escort, has her chauffeur drive her in her Daimler, which is still parked outside.’
Bardie is impressed.
‘Hell’s bells, she makes our suffragettes seem like pussy cats!’
Geordie is not so sure.
‘Perhaps, but it’s enough to put you off the fairer sex for life. Imagine going home to her and having to confess to a little dalliance on the side and she opens her knicker drawer and pops you with a bally pistol!’
Bardie changes the subject.
‘I’m going up to Glen Tilt this morning. Would you two slouches care to join me?’
Hamish declines, but young Geordie’s eyes light up.
Bardie has been involved in a scheme for over six years that both his father and Hamish think is hare-brained, but which Geordie thinks is fascinating. It involves a somewhat eccentric character called John William Dunne, the son of wild Irish aristocrat General Sir John Dunne.
As a boy, Dunne became obsessed with the novels of Jules Verne, especially the imaginary machines he described. He started making paper aeroplanes by the score and flying them from the roof of his family home in County Kildare. By the time he was a teenager, Dunne, as bright as he was odd, was designing elaborate flying machines in the manner of Leonardo da Vinci. He was encouraged to continue by the author H. G. Wells, a family friend, whose vivid imagination was also a lifelong inspiration.
Bardie met Dunne during the Boer War, when Dunne was a lieutenant in the Imperial Yeomanry, but afterwards lost touch with him for a while. In the interim, Dunne had got himself attached to a peculiar new military establishment, the British Army’s School of Ballooning, on Farnborough Common. An American, William Samuel Cody, a man even more outlandish than Dunne, had a rather unique role at Farnborough: he was the army’s Chief Instructor in Kiting.
Cody was extraordinary. Born William Cowdery in Iowa, he changed his name to ‘Cody’ after his hero, ‘Buffalo Bill’ Cody, and came to Europe in the 1890s with the ‘Klondike Nugget’ a Wild West act in which he displayed his horse-riding, shooting and lassoing skills. His long goatee beard, cowboy hat and leather chaps were laughably ostentatious, but huge crowds flocked to see him all the same.
Cody became fascinated by balloon flight while performing in Paris. He duly discarded the cowboy outfit and transformed himself into a leading expert in and exponent of balloon and kite flying. However, he retained his flamboyant whiskers, showman’s persona and, significantly, a personal collection of rare photographs he had bought at an auction in New York.
The photographs illustrated the use of surveillance balloons by the Union Army during the American Civil War, images so striking that they convinced a few of the more enlightened souls in Britain’s War Office that there might be something worth pursuing in this peculiar phenomenon called flying.
Cody proceeded to design several two-man ‘war kites’, one of which towed a small lifeboat across the English Channel. He also flew a manned observation kite from the deck of HMS Revenge, a feat witnessed by several gawping senior figures at the Admiralty.
When William Dunne heard that the grandiose American’s latest fad was gliders and powered aeroplanes, he rushed to Farnborough to meet him. Dunne begged to be involved, then demanded to be. Fortunately, after each weighed the other up, one madcap inventor recognized a fellow eccentric and Dunne was accepted.
Cody later left Farnborough to pursue flying as a private enterprise. After setting many records and twice winning the Michelin Cup and several Daily Mail Round Britain Races, he was killed in an accident in 1913. His funeral at Aldershot Military Cemetery was attended by 100,000 people who witnessed an interment that took place with full military honours and generated national headlines.
Dunne had remained at Farnborough, but when it was realized that his experiments were readily visible in the local vicinity and were thus easily observable by Britain’s enemies – especially the spies of Germany’s new Imperial Air Service, the Fliegertruppe – he approached Bardie.
The Atholl Estate has many remote valleys and Dunne asked Bardie if one could be used for a secret development programme. Bardie discussed it with his father, who was very sceptical, especially when his son described Dunne’s latest scheme. He hoped to develop a prototype aeroplane based on the aerodynamic characteristics of the winged seeds of the zamonia plant. At first, the old duke, a cavalry man first and last, was speechless, but he finally conceded when he was reminded that he had also thought electric lighting, motor cars and telephones were ludicrous ideas.
Glen Tilt, a few miles to the north of Blair Castle, was chosen for the clandestine work. Hangars and workshops were built and good progress made, with better and better versions of Dunne’s designs being produced. However, in 1909 the sceptics prevailed at the War Office and Dunne’s funding was withdrawn. So Bardie, undaunted, enlisted the support of his friends, Hugh ‘Bendor’ Grosvenor, the 2nd Duke of Westminster, one of the country’s richest men, Baron Nathan ‘Natty’ Rothschild, the renowned Jewish philanthropist, and William ‘Billy’ Wentworth-Fitzwilliam, 7th Earl Fitzwilliam, the owner of Wentworth Woodhouse, the largest private house in Europe. After a little arm-twisting, each agreed to join with Bardie and take over the financing of the project.
Dunne’s prototype development in Scotland began with ‘Dunne (D) 4’, which was dismantled at Farnborough, transported in secret to Scotland and reassembled at Glen Tilt. The project is now up to ‘D8’, which has already been flown successfully, persuading the War Office to place an order for two of them to be built for use in military manoeuvres.
While Bardie asks Forsyth the butler to prepare some lunch and organize wet-weather clothing, Geordie asks Bardie about future plans.
‘It’s costing us a fortune, but Churchill has written to me privately, encouraging me to press on, so we’re very heartened by that.’
Hamish, about to go off shooting, is eavesdropping. He is not a Churchill fan.
‘If the First Lord is so keen, why doesn’t he write in an official capacity?’
‘He’s a politician, Hamish, so he has to be circumspect with his opinions, especially about a secret scheme, financed privately.’
‘Isn’t that so typical of Churchill? He wants it both ways.’
‘Of course he does; he’s a politi
cian. And, if I may remind you, so am I.’
‘I rest my case, m’lud!’
‘Off with you, Hamish. Go and shoot something; preferably something edible. My partners are coming up for the weekend, they’ll be on the four o’clock from London. You need to be at dinner tonight; it’s a three-line whip from Father.’
‘I know, I’ll be there. Is it black tie?’
‘Yes, the girls are coming up too; best behaviour all round.’
That evening, there are so many at Blair for dinner, that the duke has instructed it be served in the Castle Ballroom, a cavernous hall with a magnificent hammer-beam roof and a minstrels’ gallery large enough to accommodate a small orchestra.
The 7th Duke, ‘Iain’ to his friends, is at the head of the table. But the old boy is a widower, so Bardie’s wife, Kitty, Lady Katharine Stewart-Murray, four years younger than him, is the hostess. She is intelligent, feisty and is constantly at odds with her father-in-law.
Kitty is from the ‘lesser gentry’, a social stratum she regards as embodying Britain’s strong moral backbone; a view firmly reinforced in her mind since her marriage to Bardie. She is contemptuous of the loose behaviour of those whose titles once defined them as her social superiors. Now, she will be a duchess herself one day. She loves Bardie, despite his own ‘weaknesses’, and is determined that she will redeem him from the sins of his peers. Nor will she allow herself to succumb to the temptations of the weekend ‘bed-hopping’ so relished by the Stewart-Murrays and those of their ilk.
As she looks at the dinner guests, a thin smile crosses her face. She notices the knowing glances being exchanged; she sees the false charm and the overt sycophancy. She catches Bardie’s eye, who smiles at her warmly in his turn. Then she admonishes herself a little: she played her own little games with Bardie when they first met, so perhaps she should not be so judgemental.
Hamish and Geordie are there, as are two of the three daughters of the family. All three Stewart-Murray girls are older than the boys: Dorothea is almost fifty, Helen is a couple of years younger and Evelyn, something of a family ‘black sheep’ who lives abroad, is yet another year younger.
Bardie’s partners in the aeroplane scheme are there, but without their wives, who have been left behind in England. William Dunne is also there, with two of his designers, as are several of Bardie and his brothers’ local friends. However, there is no dearth of ladies. Bardie has been careful to invite several presentable young women from the well-to-do families of Perthshire and even a couple of socialites from Edinburgh, who have been driven up in Bardie’s brand-new motor car, a midnight-blue Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. Several of the ladies will, no doubt, be very keen to make the acquaintance of the immensely rich and titled guests.
It promises to be an entertaining evening and weekend when, concealed behind the imposing walls and turrets of Blair’s white-stucco, Scottish-baronial splendour, the Anglo-Scottish nobility will indulge themselves in their notorious ‘rakishness’.
As the dinner comes to an end, Kitty notices some of the more obvious pairings as they make their clandestine plans for the night. She allows herself a few lingering thoughts about the couplings to come and enjoys, briefly, the erotic thoughts she conjures in her mind’s eye. Then she extinguishes them, reminding herself that they are not ‘proper’ and are to be resisted if one’s moral fibre is to be kept intact.
Saturday 6 June
Duke’s Arms, Presteigne, Radnorshire
‘Nice service, Hywel.’
‘We’ll miss old Rhodri.’
As people offer their condolences at the family reception after the patriarch of the Thomas family has been laid to rest in Presteigne’s St Andrew’s churchyard, there are many similar hollow platitudes. Disappointingly few people went to the service and even fewer have turned up to the wake, even though the Duke’s Arms always does a nice shoulder of ham with fresh bread, and the family has provided half a dozen flagons of beer.
Hywel and the others smile appreciatively at the gestures of kindness. But, if truth be told, their father was always a curmudgeonly sort, who got worse as he got older and became so insufferable after his wife died that he ended up with few friends. Cathy Griffiths was the glue that held the family together, and when she contracted pneumonia during the cold January of 1912 and died within the week, life became an increasing strain at Pentry Farm. Rhodri’s pride was shattered. For generations, Pentry had been able to keep a large family and the old man blamed himself that it could do so no longer.
Money became tighter as the value of lamb plummeted. And with every fall in price, Rhodri’s mood darkened. All three boys had to earn extra money by working on neighbouring farms and, despite being a good scholar at school, Bronwyn was forced to take up cleaning work in Presteigne.
As the wake empties and Morgan and Geraint pour more and more beer into themselves from the still half-full flagons, Hywel, Tom and Bronwyn are left huddled together in a dingy corner of the Duke’s back parlour. It is not one of the pub’s better rooms, dark and chilly with a flagstone floor and cream distemper walls. It is four in the afternoon and the pub is quiet. The shopworkers, factorymen and artisans will not be in for another half an hour and, as it is early June, the farmers are busy in their fields.
Bronwyn has put on her mother’s black dress and coat and is as pretty as a picture, her long black tresses tied into a fashionable pompadour. It is the first time she has worn her hair up but, at eighteen, she is old enough. Indeed, it is not thought ‘proper’ that a grown woman should wear her hair down unless in the privacy of her bedroom.
The room is suddenly made much darker as the huge frame of Philip Davies blocks the light. He greets them all warmly and thanks them for the food and ale, then turns to Bronwyn.
‘Bronwyn, I hear you’re doing some cleaning. Clara is not too well at the moment, could you do two or three half days for us?’
‘Yes, I could, Mr Davies …’
She pauses, delighted by the offer of more work, but also a little overawed. Philip Davies is the most prominent man in the village, a towering presence, both physically and in local esteem.
‘Thank you, sir. When should I come?’
‘When are you next available?’
‘Wednesday afternoon?’
‘That’s perfect.’
Davies shakes everybody by the hand before leaving. Even without his top hat, he has to lower his head to pass under the door to the back room.
Hywel is looking tired and pensive. Tom, who has taken a day off from his work as a carpenter, tries to distract him.
‘Another mug, Hywel?’
‘No, ta, Tom. I should get those two boys home afore they empty those flagons.’
‘Come on, have another! Tell him, Bron.’
Bron grasps her brother’s arm.
‘Come on, big brother, I’m goin’ to ’ave one. Will you buy me a milk stout, Tom?’
‘Of course.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Hywel turns to his sister. ‘I don’t want you drinkin’ at Da’s funeral, it’s not proper.’
Bronwyn is feeling raw.
‘Hywel, don’t you dare! I’m eighteen, a grown woman. You men are drinkin’; if I want a drink, I’ll ’ave one. Tom, a milk stout, and a glass o’ port wine, please.’
Tom, sensitive as always, knows that emotions are brittle and that a row is looming.
‘Bron, perhaps Hywel’s right. Why don’t we take some beer home?’
Bronwyn sees a chance to be yet more provocative.
‘Good idea, I can stay with you tonight.’
Bronwyn knows that there is no possibility of staying with Tom; he lives with his parents, plus his two younger brothers and two sisters, in a small terraced house in Presteigne. Her remark is simply intended to antagonize her brother. Quite apart from the impracticality, even if Tom lived in a palace, his parents would be horrified – except for a formal family gathering – at the thought of a girl of marriageable age crossing their threshold, especially to s
pend the night.
‘No, Bronwyn, don’t be silly. I meant home to Pentry. I can stay in the barn.’
‘Tom, I’m not bein’ “silly”; you sound like Hywel, or my father. Well, neither of you is my father. He’s dead!’
She bursts into tears and rushes from the parlour. Tom gets up to follow her, but Hywel puts his hand on his friend’s arm.
‘Leave her be for a minute or two.’
Hywel looks severe, trying to sound like a man of forty, rather than a youth of nineteen.
‘Sit down, we need to talk.’
Tom knows what is coming. It is a conversation he has been dreading since Monday, when Hywel realized how close he and Bronwyn have become.
‘So how long ’as it been goin’ on?’
‘Hywel, Bron’s of age –’
‘That’s as maybe, but I’m entitled to ask. I’m head o’ the family now.’
Tom knows he has a point.
‘Since Christmas.’
‘Are you bein’ careful?’
‘Course we are; we’re not daft.’
‘How do yer find somewhere to do yer courtin’?’
‘Hywel, come on, man. Be fair.’
‘All right, sorry … but she is my little sister.’
‘I know! I have sisters too.’
‘I assume you’ll be makin’ an ’onest woman of ’er?’
‘I will, Hywel, but I’ve nothin’ to offer her at the moment.’
‘Well, we’re all in that boat. But remember, you’ll answer to me if you hurt her.’
Tom takes the warning without rancour, knowing full well that it is no affront to the friendship he shares with Hywel, merely a genuine expression of the affection of an elder brother for his little sister.
‘What will you do now that Rhodri’s gone?’
‘I don’t know; it’s a right bugger. Pentry can’t keep four of us. Geraint and Morgan need to find more work, or I do.’
‘What about that girl from Knighton you’ve been seeing? She was very keen on you last time I saw her.’
‘Cari? She’s keen, all right; fair makes me get a stalk on. But she’s not a future Mrs Thomas.’
The Shadow of War Page 4