‘Not Blenheim again, Winston?’
‘No, Jack, let’s do the final hours of Waterloo. I’ll form the British squares and you can attack with Ney’s cavalry, the bravest of the brave!’
Jack smiles. He knows that no matter how courageous Ney and his cavalry will be at the impending re-enactment of Waterloo, Winston’s resolute squares of red-coated British infantry will break them.
The chief of Britain’s navy, the greatest the world has ever seen, is, for the moment, content. The weather is glorious, England’s shores glisten, and its hinterland glows, verdant in the warm haze of a summer morning. His mighty navy is at anchor, protecting his beloved homeland. From Cromarty to Dover, in their various sally-ports, his flotillas lie in wait to snare any aggressor. In the Channel, the great super-dreadnoughts brood, their awesome 13.5-inch guns ready to bombard any threat that dares come within range.
The Battle of Waterloo is won once more and Winston, victorious yet again, collects the spoils of the battlefield – two buckets, their spades and a watering can – before suspending hostilities for lunch. When they reach Pear Tree Cottage, a walk of only a few yards, an earnest marine colour serjeant is waiting for them.
‘Sir, the Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, has sent a telegram asking that you return to London this afternoon. He will be at home at Eccleston Square. Supper will be prepared.’
‘Very well, Colour Serjeant. Does Sir Edward say any more?’
The man hands Winston the telegram. His eyes are immediately drawn to a clipped sentence, ‘Austrians still not content,’ before folding the paper neatly.
‘Destroy the telegram immediately. Please ask the telegrapher to reply that I will be with Sir Edward by nine.’
Clemmie and the children are distraught.
‘Pug, it’s been less than a day –’
‘I know, darling, but Eddie has asked me to return because the situation is deteriorating. The colour serjeant here will stay with you.’
The marine casts a concerned glance at Winston.
‘But, sir, I have strict orders to stay with you.’
‘I understand, Colour Serjeant, but the safety of my family is paramount. I’ll take your lance corporal with me on the train. You stay here and report to my brother, Lieutenant Churchill.’
Although clearly reluctant, the colour serjeant, realizing that he is speaking to the First Lord of the Admiralty, a man more senior than all the ranks in the entire Corps of Marines, agrees.
Winston makes a rapid exit from Pear Tree Cottage and catches the afternoon train to London. There are tears all round, not only because his stay has been so brief and his departure so sudden, but also because of the ominous news.
Everyone knows that the unfolding events are about to affect them profoundly.
Saturday 25 July
84 Eaton Place, London
Eaton Place is the London home of the Stewart-Murray family. One of London’s finest town houses, Bardie and Kitty pass most of their time there and regard it as home. After spending Friday night at his club, the Carlton, where all the talk was about the situation in Europe, Bardie’s father has had lunch with the King at Buckingham Palace. The King was still fuming about the failure of his conference to resolve the Irish Home Rule crisis and was not particularly good company.
The old duke then spent the afternoon with one of his mistresses, a lady unknown to the family but who Bardie suspects may well be Winston Churchill’s mother, Lady Randolph, only recently divorced from her second husband, George Cornwallis-West.
Although well over seventy, the duke still has an eye for the ladies, young or old and from any echelon of society. His indiscretions are well known to the family, who refer to them as ‘Father’s latest’. Sometimes they are high-born society ladies, but often they are local Perthshire girls, happy to romp with the ageing stag and especially grateful for the small gratuity that will follow in the wake of the dalliance.
Thanks to his afternoon’s cavorting, the duke arrives at Eaton Place in excellent humour. He is a man who, perhaps more than any other man in Britain, is a law into himself; he can, more or less, do as he pleases. Unlike the King, a close personal friend, he does not have the eyes of the nation turned towards him every time he appears in public. Isolated on his vast estate in Scotland, hidden behind the walls of his ancient, fairy-tale castle, he is ennobled with more titles than any other peer: a dukedom, two marquisates, five earldoms, three viscounties and seven baronies. He is the grandee of grandees, monarch of his own principality and commander of his own private army.
‘So, Bardie, what’s for supper? I could eat a horse.’
‘Well, Father, I’ll check with Jarvis, but I think he said leg of lamb. I don’t imagine Allens of Mayfair would think of themselves as a boucherie chevaline, but I can get cook to ask when she next places an order with them.’
‘Very amusing, Bardie. Jarvis, where’s my Glenmorangie!’
Unnoticed by him, Jarvis, the family’s London butler, has been hovering next to the duke for some moments. He immediately proffers him a silver tray with a crystal tumbler awash with a generous quota of his favourite malt. Jarvis bows and waits while, from a matching crystal jug, the old boy pours a thumbnail of water into a tumbler etched with the elaborate Atholl coat of arms.
‘Where’s Kitty?’
‘She will be down directly, Father.’
Kitty and her father-in-law do not see eye to eye on many things. The 7th Duke likes his women to be decorous and supine. Any other kind is either a communist or a suffragette, or both. When Kitty went to Blair Castle for the first time, the duke was initially charming and even danced with her after dinner, delighted that her Scottish dancing was commendably proficient. But matters deteriorated the next morning when he led a walk down the glen. He, Bardie, his brothers and the other male guests formed the vanguard, leaving the ladies to bring up the rear. Kitty took great exception to this and immediately turned on her heels and headed back to the house. Relations between the two of them have been no better than tepid ever since, with occasional blasts of iciness, usually caused by squabbles over trivialities.
‘So the King is fuming?’
‘He is. He has a soft spot for the Unionists and doesn’t want to relinquish his title as King of Ireland. He says it took us long enough to bring them to heel and can’t understand why the politicians want to give it up so easily. I agree with him.’
‘I take a different view.’
‘I thought you might. Are you absolutely sure you’re a Tory. Half the time, you sound like a bloody communist!’
‘Hardly, Father; I just like to see both sides of an argument.’
‘Well, in this argument there are two sides, but only one is right. Where’s your bloody wife? I’m starving!’
At that moment, Kitty appears in the doorway.
‘Bardie’s “bloody wife” is here.’
She gives the duke a stare that would turn most men to stone, kisses Bardie on the cheek and sits down at the dining table. The duke, not discomfited in the slightest, joins her and stands at the head of the table. He then waits for the first footman to push in his chair so that he can lower his ample rump on to it. He notices that there are five places set for dinner.
‘Are we expecting guests?’
Bardie takes a deep breath. His father’s good humour has not lasted long.
‘Yes, Father, we are.’
‘Well, they’re bloody late.’
‘They’re not late. I said eight, and it’s only just turned the hour.’
‘Bloody nuisance! I hope they’re amusing.’
Kitty smiles, but thinly, through clenched teeth.
‘I invited them because he’s very well read and very bright. She runs a charity for homeless children and is absolutely charming. He’s finishing his doctorate at Birkbeck College and acts as our personal secretary on a part-time basis.’
The duke flushes puce and his grey beard quivers as he convulses and coughs.
&
nbsp; ‘Do you mean to say that you expect me to dine with your bloody servant!’
Bardie intervenes.
‘He’s not a servant, Father, he’s a very learned academic chap who happens to be helping us out with some admin. He’s more a friend than anything else.’
‘So you’re befriending your servants now. Bloody nonsense! You’re a bloody fool, Bardie. Kitty is filling your head with all sorts of damn silly notions.’
The duke stands and throws his napkin on to the table. The butler hovers discreetly to one side.
‘Jarvis, whistle for a cab; two minutes.’ He turns to Bardie. ‘I’ll be at the Guards Club, where the servants serve and do as they’re bloody well told.’
The duke pushes back his chair, which tumbles into the desperate grasp of the footman, and storms from the room. As he does so, he pushes past the evening’s guests who, totally bewildered, stare at an image of utter disdain on the enflamed face that passes them in the hallway.
Dinner begins awkwardly without the duke. But Bardie and Kitty excuse his behaviour, using the King’s conference on Irish Home Rule and his subsequent anger as a disguise. They pretend that the duke has been summoned by Queen Alexandra to help placate the King’s mood by joining them for supper.
After dinner, during which both Kitty and Bardie drink too much wine, and as soon as their guests have departed, the evening’s frustrations boil over.
‘Your father is unbearable; I’ve had enough, Bardie. I don’t want him here again, and I will not go to Blair while he’s there.’
‘Kitty, darling, I miscalculated. He’s never lived in London and can’t imagine a friendship with someone outside his social milieu. I should have known better.’
‘Are you defending his boorish behaviour?’
‘No, just trying to explain it.’
‘Well, he doesn’t mind cavorting outside his “social milieu” when it comes to the floozies he meets in the Burlington Arcade!’
‘Kitty, please; he’s no worse than most.’
‘That’s no bloody excuse! He talks about manners, discipline and values; he’s a hypocrite, plain and simple.’
‘He’s also my father; I’ve got to live with him.’
‘Well, I don’t!’
Kitty rushes from the dining room in tears and slams the door behind her.
Several minutes later, after he has consumed a couple of large cognacs, Bardie joins her in bed. Somewhat drunk, he is feeling amorous. Kitty, still crying, is furious that sex should be on his mind in the aftermath of the heated exchange about his father’s behaviour. She pushes him away firmly.
‘Kitty, come on … I’m feeling romantic.’
‘Romantic! Don’t take me for a fool, Bardie. You’re feeling like an engorged stag; it’s just lust. I’m not in the mood for romance, and I’m certainly not prepared to accommodate your drunken passion.’
Bardie begins to succumb to the alcohol.
‘For Christ’s sake, woman, that’s why I have no heir. You rarely let me near you. And when you do, there’s no pleasure in it. I have my rights, you know!’
‘Rights! Don’t you dare. If you want to rut like an animal, go back to your tart in Mayfair; she’s already produced one bastard for you. I’m told she’ll open her legs for any Tom, Dick or Harry!’
Bardie loses control and slaps Kitty across the face with some venom. She screams out loud before kicking him and punching him with all her might. Fortunately, Bardie does not retaliate but backs away until he is left cowering in the corner of the bedroom, his own tears now flooding down his face.
Like his father, Bardie has produced at least one illegitimate child that Kitty and the family know about. She suspects that there are others. She and Bardie have just celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary and she is now almost forty. They both know she is unlikely ever to produce children.
Kitty was first introduced to little Eileen Macallum last year, when the girl was invited to Blair for a summer holiday. Nothing explicit was said, but Bardie’s brother, Hamish, talked of the ‘Macallum mystery’. The girl is thought to be the granddaughter of a ‘Mrs Macallum, 6 Curzon Street, London’ (a fact Kitty gleaned from a letter glimpsed over Bardie’s shoulder) but the identity of the mother remains a mystery.
Eileen is a pretty and vivacious child. Kitty has grown to tolerate her and is even beginning to show a fondness towards her. However, her inability to have a child of her own is a constant source of sadness and the cause of frequent rows with Bardie.
After several minutes, despite still feeling the sting of his slap on her face, Kitty begins to feel sorry for Bardie, who is still cowering in the corner, sobbing like a child. Taking pity on him, she goes over to comfort him. He is full of remorse for having struck her and begs for forgiveness.
They do have sex, on the floor where they lie. It is more passionate than usual and is satisfying for both of them. They repeat the exercise the next morning – again, it is more fulfilling than usual – helping them forget the extraordinary behaviour of the duke and their own row from the night before.
Kitty reflects on how strange are the responses of people in the grip of extreme emotions.
Sunday 26 July
Willey Lodge, Presteigne, Radnorshire
The four Thomas siblings have just arrived at Willey Lodge, a spacious country house a few miles north of Presteigne across the English border. They have been invited for afternoon tea by its owner, Mr Aaron Griffiths. Local auctioneer and town worthy Philip Davies is there, as is the Reverend Henry Kewley, the unofficial leader of the local community.
The three men, each steadfast pillars of local society, are staunch liberals; Kewley and Davies are Anglicans, but Griffiths is a Primitive Welsh Methodist and extremely proud of his Celtic roots. Other than religion, the three of them agree on most things, especially the need to revive the local economy, and have been striving for several years to find new sources of revenue for Presteigne.
Hywel, his two brothers, Morgan and Geraint, and his sister, Bronwyn, have no idea why they have been asked to tea, but they know it will be more than a convivial social gathering. Bronwyn is accompanied by Tom Crisp, who has recently become her fiancé. As agreed with Hywel, Tom and Bronwyn have been living together at Pentry Farm for the past two months, where Tom has converted the farm’s old wood store into a one-room home for the two of them.
After a few minutes of polite conversation, during which Mrs Griffiths places huge piles of sandwiches and cakes on the dining-room table, Henry Kewley adopts his most charming manner and beckons the guests to sit.
‘So, Hywel, how are things at Pentry after the very sad loss of your father?’
‘Not thrivin’, Reverend Kewley, but we mustn’t crib, we’re luckier than some.’
‘Well said, Hywel; times are hard for everyone.’
Tom looks around at the expensive finery of Willey Lodge and the needless mountains of food, then casts a glance at Bronwyn. He wants to say, ‘Present company excepted,’ but knows he cannot.
‘Hywel, let me come to the point. As you know, Mr Griffiths here has been digging for coal in Folly Wood for a while now. Mr Davies has also sunk a shaft near Caen Wood; he and I are shareholders in Mr Griffiths’s company, the Radnor Coal Syndicate. But, on another matter, Mr Griffiths has a proposition for you.’
Aaron Griffiths steps forward, a beaming smile on his face, and greets them in Welsh.
‘Cyfarchion, ffrindiau. Forgive me, but I must continue in English for the sake of our English friends.’ His smile broadens and he raises his arms, as if preaching. ‘I would like to buy Pentry Farm –’
Hywel, visibly shocked, interrupts Griffiths.
‘There’s no coal on Pentry’s land, if that’s what yer after, Mr Griffiths.’
‘I’m not after coal, Hywel. There are several springs on the land, are there not?’
‘Aye, there are; good strong ’uns. And the water’s as sweet as apples, as pure as anywhere.’
‘That�
�s right, lad, and that’s what I’m after. You’ve heard of Llandrindod Wells?’
‘Aye, of course.’
‘Well, we think Presteigne could become a flourishing spa, like Llandrindod.’
The Thomas family look at one another with expressions of bewilderment mixed with anxiety. Bronwyn, the most perturbed, grasps Tom’s hand. As she does so, she casts an awkward glance at Philip Davies, whose house she has been cleaning since June. He smiles at her with an expression that surprises Tom and makes her feel uncomfortable.
She speaks out, hesitantly at first.
‘Mr Griffiths, sir, Pentry has been in our family fer generations. Where’ll we live?’
‘Well, young lady, listen to my proposal. First, I will give you seven hundred and seventy-five pounds for the freehold of the land and the cottage. Second, I will draw up a five-year tenancy agreement for your family to rent the cottage and the land at a rate of forty pounds a year. My plan is to divert one of the springs to a new building I will construct at the bottom of your lower pasture, where I’m going to bottle the water. The water from the other springs is yours to use as tenants.’
Hywel does the mental arithmetic quickly. The price for the land is fair; it is a good offer, and he knows he can cover the annual rent from the farm’s income.
‘And after five years?’
‘There’s no reason why we can’t continue the tenancy thereafter. I’m not interested in the farm, just its springs.’
‘When do yer need an answer by?’
‘Shall we say tomorrow evening? I can come to you at Pentry, if you like.’
Hywel looks around at his brothers and sister. They look bemused. Morgan nods his head slightly, suggesting interest.
‘Very well, Mr Griffiths. We’ll give you a bit o’ tea. It won’t be like Mrs Griffiths’s spread, but we’ll do our best.’
Before the Thomas family leave, Philip Davies offers them his advice.
‘Hywel, I know that you face a difficult decision, but I also know how hard it is for you to make ends meet at Pentry. I’ve sold more land and properties than I care to remember, and Mr Griffiths is making you a very generous offer.’
The Shadow of War Page 9