Tommy is perplexed. He intended to provoke a fight, but gets a grin and a pint instead. The unexpected response draws Tommy’s venom.
‘Aye, we’ll ’ave a pint wi’ thee. But only one, then it’s outside fer a set-to.’
Three pints later, the two men are sharing stories, all talk of fighting forgotten. Then Tommy remembers that his new pal is a stranger to the club.
‘So, Mick lad, why ’as tha come down to Burnley toneet?’
‘To see thee.’
‘Me, what fer?’
‘Two reasons. First, I ’eard about thy set-to wi’ Joe Smalley and I wanted to meet t’lad wi’ teeth like a bulldog. Second, my missus, Cath, is a bit of a firebrand. She supports them suffragettes and ’as just joined t’socialists.’
‘Bloody ’ell; votes fer women! My Mary’s t’same. I can’t vote mesen; I don’t know any lad who can. Mary says we should all ’ave t’vote.’
‘I know, Cath’s ’eard that your Mary speaks ’er mind at t’mill. That’s why I’m ’ere; Cath wants Mary to join t’socialists. But I wanted to speak wi’ thee first.’
‘That’s reet gentlemanly of thee. I’ll talk to Mary. But she knows ’er own mind and will suit ’erself.’
‘Another ale, Tommy?’
‘Aye, ta. ’Ow yer gettin’ ’ome to Colne?’
‘A’ve missed last tram; I’ll ’ave to walk.’
‘No, yer won’t; it’s seven mile to Colne. Tha can sleep in our front room and meet Mary in t’morn.’
‘Good o’ thee to let a collier through thy front door.’
‘That’s alreet. No pissin’ in t’fire back, though. I know what you lads do fer a piss down t’pit.’
Monday 8 June
Glen Tilt Experimental Aerodrome, Blair Atholl, Perthshire
Before Blair Atholl’s weekend guests catch the lunchtime train back to London, Bardie Stewart-Murray is anxious to show them and his fellow investors the fruits of three years’ hard work trying to perfect William Dunne’s flying machine. Despite a long weekend of daytime shooting and highly raucous night-time revelry, transport to Glen Tilt Aerodrome has been organized for 7 a.m. Breakfast has been sent up and served in one of the large hangars.
Bardie has been holding back from showing his guests Glen Tilt in order to spring a surprise. He has been in correspondence with Winston Churchill, Britain’s First Lord of the Admiralty, for some time about their mutual interest in aeroplanes. On Saturday morning, he received a telegram from the Admiralty stating: ‘WSC, First Lord, accompanied by CSC, will anchor in Firth of Tay, Sun 7th. Will be at Glen Tilt Mon 8th, 7.30 a.m. sharp.’
Bardie immediately cancelled the planned visit to Glen Tilt he had arranged for Saturday, citing ‘technical difficulties’, and rescheduled for Monday morning. Despite the fact that heavy drinking and other forms of wickedness were still going on at 3 a.m., all the guests have appeared and, apart from some pastiness around the gills, look fresh and are turned out immaculately. After all, debauchery is no excuse for slovenliness.
Bardie has only confided in his father and William Dunne about Churchill’s visit. The former, not fond of Liberals, is unimpressed, the latter is rushing around like a man possessed.
Kitty, Bardie’s wife, is curious about the breakfast.
‘Champagne in the Glens on a Monday morning, Bardie. What’s the occasion?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘You mean the damn thing flies!’
‘Of course it does. Don’t tease; you’ve seen it fly many times.’
‘So why the champagne?’
‘We’re expecting a guest.’
‘Really, and who would that be? The Kaiser, perhaps?’
‘Kitty, don’t be beastly. Actually, it’s Churchill.’
Kitty suddenly sheds her sarcasm.
‘Goodness! Well done, Bardie; I rather like him.’
‘Hmm, I’m afraid Father doesn’t.’
‘Your father doesn’t like anybody very much – particularly me.’
‘That’s because he thinks you’re a suffragette.’
‘I’ve told him countless times that I have no truck with the Pankhursts. But because I have a tongue in my head, I must be both a suffragette and a socialist in his eyes.’
‘Darling Kitty, he thinks I’m a socialist because I don’t agree that men should work for a pittance and not be able to feed their families.’
Kitty and Bardie’s banter is interrupted by the loud horn of a jet-black Admiralty car sent from Rosyth to transport the First Lord to Blair Atholl and its secret aerodrome. It pulls into the open space in front of the assembled breakfast gathering and, to the amazement of all, out steps Winston Churchill with his wife, Clementine, in his wake. He heads smartly for the duke, full of effusive geniality.
‘Your Grace, good to see you again.’
He then turns to Bardie and Kitty, and does the rounds of the guests. Kisses and handshakes are exchanged.
‘Ah, champagne! From the slightly pale complexion of your guests, I gather you still know how to throw a party. Must have been quite a weekend.’ He takes a generous gulp from his goblet and turns to the duke’s butler. ‘Good morning to you …’ He pauses.
‘Forsyth, sir.’
‘Good morning, Forsyth. Splendid morning! Do you happen to have any oysters?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t, sir; not very fresh in Edinburgh yesterday. But his lordship asked cook to prepare some plovers’ eggs for you. She has sent some fresh bread, which we can toast for you if you like.’
‘My goodness, this is heaven on earth! Thank you so much, and tell the cook she will assuredly go to heaven.’
Winston ushers Clementine to join the elderly duke at his table and begins to demolish his eggs. As he does so, he takes charge of proceedings.
‘Bardie, your hospitality is beyond reproach. Now let’s see how this contraption of yours performs.’
William Dunne takes his cue and signals to his mechanics at the adjacent hangar to wheel out his latest prototype. Dunne is not the showman that his mentor William Samuel Cody was, but he tries his best to introduce his marvel.
‘Your graces, my lords, ladies, Mr Churchill, this is the D8, developed here at Glen Tilt by the Blair Atholl Syndicate Limited. It is the next major step in man’s triumph over gravity.’
So far, so good, thinks Bardie. Dunne continues, trying, without too much success, to add gravitas to his delivery.
‘The D8 is powered by a water-cooled, four-cylinder, sixty-horse-power engine. It directly drives a four-blade pusher-propeller, which saves considerable weight compared to the chain drives of previous prototypes.’
Bardie looks around at the gathering. Although Churchill and his investors are still engrossed, his father is already staring up at the high sides of the glen looking for roe deer, while the fixed smiles of his sisters and those of Kitty and Mrs Churchill are beginning to strain.
Dunne carries on regardless.
‘The D8 is a tailless four-bay unstaggered biplane, my speciality, with its wings swept at 32 degrees. The outer struts are enclosed with fabric, forming fixed side curtains that provide directional yaw.’
Dunne suddenly catches Bardie’s eyes, which are imploring him to stop talking and to fly his contraption. All but Winston have glazed over and are shuffling their feet impatiently. So D8’s designer cuts short his technical outline, dons his flying helmet and clambers aboard a craft which looks for all the world like an oversized children’s kite.
With its inventor at the controls, its propeller kicks into life with an ear-splitting roar and, despite its bizarre appearance, D8 makes bumpy progress down the glen. It shakes and rattles like an old boiler, but when it eventually becomes airborne, the propeller’s sound suddenly becomes melodious and its struts, props and canvas take on the elegance of a bird in flight. It flies over Glen Tilt for nearly twenty minutes. Dunne, now in his element and feeling confident, is even able to fly low over the aerodrome and take his hands off the controls
. Only a few feet from the ground, he waves to his audience as he passes. There are gasps from those watching, even the old duke smiles.
Winston is full of admiration.
‘Very good show, Bardie.’ He goes over to Bardie’s investors and shakes their hands. ‘Three lords a-laughing! I’m not surprised; very well done, gentlemen. This is a big step forward.’
When Dunne lands his plane, Winston is there to greet him.
‘Mr Dunne, you have made dramatic progress. You have the future in your hands. Literally. Please, keep going.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Still beaming, Winston turns to Bardie.
‘Clemmie and I are staying in my Dundee constituency tonight, so we have time for an early lunch. Shall we adjourn to Blair? I’d like to have a word with you and your backers.’
A casual buffet lunch is prepared at Blair Castle, during which Winston guides Bardie and his investors into the garden.
‘Gentlemen, I know you have a train to catch, but I wanted to have a quiet word about your project here. It is very exciting; you must continue, full bore.’
Natty Rothschild bristles slightly.
‘We shall, Winston, rest assured. But as you know, we’re only financing it because the army withdrew its funding.’
Bendor Grosvenor then makes his feelings clear.
‘There is only so far we can go as private investors. The War Office has to do more.’
Winston takes a deep draw on his cigar, sticks out his chin and exhales flamboyantly.
‘I know, they turn the word “conservative” into a blasphemy. I’m sorry. But I am trying to bring flight under the wing of the navy, if you will forgive the pun. I’ll get my way, but you must give me time.’
Billy Wentworth-Fitzwilliam asks the obvious question.
‘How much time?’
‘Give me nine months. I have approval for my naval budget for the rest of the year, but I’ll work on the PM for the autumn review. He realizes the Germans are ahead of us, and the gap is widening. Asquith knows that only too well, but there are many doubters in the Cabinet. I’m working on them. Please keep going until March.’
Bardie walks towards the window and looks across the glens towards the east.
‘Winston, this situation with the Kaiser, is it serious?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. It is a growing threat. I fear he will not stop until he has his way with the French –’ Realizing that he may be sounding too alarmist, he breaks off and lightens his tone. ‘So, gentlemen, look to the east and give me time.’
The four men look at one another for a moment before giving hesitant nods of agreement.
Winston, now in the mode of the jovial politician, shakes their hands and bids them farewell.
‘Safe journeys to London. And don’t worry, I’ll have flying under the navy’s wing very soon. Fear not, gentlemen, we will all be flying around in those things before you know it. You’ll make a fortune.’
Monday 29 June
Mechanics’ Institute, Burnley, Lancashire
Burnley Mechanics’ Institute is the town’s finest building. A neoclassical Victorian masterpiece, its Palladian façade, complete with Corinthian columns and elegant pediments, would readily serve as a gentleman’s club in St James’s, in London. Although it is beginning to acquire the grime that is the hallmark of Burnley’s other buildings, its soft honey-coloured sandstone still stands out against the darker shades of the local millstone grit.
While it would sit well in London’s club land, the clientele in the Mechanics’ Reading Room on this warm sunny evening could not offer a greater contrast to the aristocrats of White’s or Boodle’s. The gathering is an odd assortment; they number fewer than thirty and have a wide range of views, but all are committed socialists of one kind or another. All, that is, except Tommy Broxup and Mick Kenny, who are there to see the kind of people their wives admire so much and seem to spend more and more time talking about.
The audience is devoted to improving the lot of Burnley’s downtrodden masses, but few of them are from the town’s impoverished communities. In the main, they are schoolteachers, civil servants and office workers; most have clean suits and are well turned out. There are only half a dozen men who look like mill workers or colliers, and two of them are Tommy and Mick. Only five of the gathering are women.
Mick’s wife, Cath, and Tommy’s wife, Mary, are seated at the front. The two men are at the back, trying not to be noticed. The two girls are at the front because they want to be close to the night’s guest speaker, Mr Harry Hyndman, the mercurial leader of the newly formed British Socialist Party.
Cath has been committed to the cause since 1905, when her father took her to the annual conference of the Social-Democratic Federation, which was held in Burnley. Only just thirteen at the time and not able to understand much of the political jargon, she was, nevertheless, entranced, especially when Hyndman spoke. He talked of the ‘regeneration and emancipation of humanity’ and said that the mission of socialists was to ‘remove from the great mass of the people all the hideous conditions of environment which make their lives a living hell’.
He finished with rousing lines that brought tears to Cath’s eyes; words she would remember for the rest of her life.
‘Those of us who would free others must themselves be free; those who would purify others must themselves be pure; those who would strengthen others must themselves be strong. If we are all those things, we will have in our hearts the first faint gleam of the dawn of a new social era. Comrades, let us march forward together.’
After Mick and Tommy’s meeting in the Keighley Green Club, Cath and Mary have become firm friends and Mary is devouring the reams of socialist literature that Cath is giving her. Both excelled at school but, as girls, have no future other than a life in the mill. Mary left school at thirteen to become an ‘under-fettler’, a role for which a small child is ideal, as it involves cleaning the cotton waste from under the working looms.
She is now a fully fledged four-loom weaver and works at the Daneshouse Mill in Stoneyholme, where Tommy is a tackler, responsible for the maintenance of the looms. Cath works at the Trafalgar Mill in the Weavers Triangle in the centre of the town. Both mills are large and successful, employing hundreds of weavers. Cath and Mary are already notorious as ‘troublemakers’. As the vast majority of weavers are men, and most of them resent women moving in and taking their jobs, the unions are almost as hostile to them as the owners. All the union officials are men and, as Cath puts it, ‘left wing when it comes to men’s wages and conditions, but right wing when it comes to women’.
Mr Hyndman is introduced by the chairman, a member of the local Fabian Society, who describes the guest speaker’s illustrious record at Trinity College Cambridge, where he read mathematics, before becoming a lawyer and journalist. He was a first-class cricketer, playing for the MCC and Sussex, and travelled the world, becoming friends with, among others, Mr Karl Marx and Mr Friedrich Engels. Tommy and Mick are impressed by the visitor’s cricketing pedigree but are clueless about the identities of Marx and Engels, except that they know they are not cricketers.
Hyndman gives an inspirational speech, which is received with rapturous applause. After the speech, there are numerous questions, few of which make much sense to Tommy and Mick, who are becoming restless. They have been in the pub and had a few jugs of beer, which is not conducive to intellectual insight. Suddenly, Tommy jumps to his feet to ask a question. When the chairman asks him to name himself and his affiliation, Mary and Cath turn round. A look of horror immediately flashes across their faces.
‘I’m Tommy Broxup. I’m affiliated to nowt, but I’m still askin’ me question. Mr Hyndman, tha can talk like a good ’un, I’ll grant thee that. But when that lad introduced thee, he told us abaht Cambridge an’ all that. So, I’m wonderin’, when tha spouts abaht t’poverty o’ workin’ people, ’ow dost tha know what tha’s talkin’ abaht?’
There are a few ripples of laughter in the
room, but most are embarrassed that a local man, speaking with an accent they are all trying hard to lose, should be so rude to their guest. Mick pulls Tommy’s jacket to get him to sit down.
Mr Hyndman is unperturbed, smiling broadly.
‘Mr Broxup, those of us who are fortunate by accident of birth to have been afforded many of life’s privileges carry a great responsibility to help, where we can, to right the world’s wrongs. I cannot hide my past, or pretend it didn’t happen, nor would I want to. I’m proud of what I have achieved. All I would ask of you, as a fellow human being, is to judge me by what I do now and what I do in the future, not by my past.’
The speaker’s thoughtful reply brings another round of enthusiastic applause, particularly from Cath and Mary. It also impresses Mick. He looks at his new pal, Tommy, who, despite his somewhat inebriated state, is thinking deeply. A few more questions are asked before the meeting is brought to a close. As it does so, Tommy gets to his feet and walks to the front of the room. The audience, knowing Tommy’s predilection for violence, is anxious, but Hyndman seems untroubled and strides forward to meet Tommy halfway. He is as tall as the Burnley man, but much larger, with his long auburn beard making him look quite formidable.
Tommy grasps Hyndman’s hand and shakes it vigorously.
‘I were out of order, Mr Hyndman. Tha’s reet, tha’ musn’t judge a man by ’is background.’
‘My name is Henry. May I call you Tommy?’
‘Aye, yer may. I hear tha laiks at cricket. Me an’ a couple o’ lads are laikin’ agin Lowerhouse tomorrow. Come an’ ’ave a knock.’
‘But I’m an old man. And not registered, Tommy.’
‘It doesn’t matter, we’re only Burnley Thirds. Just a few o’ t’lads; casual, like.’
‘Well, I’m speaking in Nelson at seven thirty, and I haven’t wielded a bat in many a year …’
‘Tha’ll be alreet, we start at five thirty. We’ll get the Lowerhouse lads to concede t’toss and tha can open fer us. Rose Grove Station is just up t’road. Nelson is only fifteen minutes.’
The Shadow of War Page 6