‘Thank you, Mr Davies. We’ll go and ponder on it.’
The family goes home to Pentry to discuss the offer. Hywel opens some of their own scrumpy and the debate begins.
Bronwyn’s position is immediately unequivocal.
‘I don’t want to sell. We have to make Pentry work. Ma and Da struggled for years to keep it goin’, as did Mam-gu and Tad-cu before ’em.’
Looking crestfallen, Hywel, who is slumped in his father’s favourite chair by the fire, asks everyone for their views.
Geraint is also clear.
‘I agree with Bron, let’s keep it. Morgan and I ’ave found good work this summer, we can find more if we ’ave to.’
Morgan is less sure and is tempted by the windfall.
‘We could make a new start with nearly eight hundred quid; it’s a lot o’ money.’
Bronwyn reacts sharply.
‘What do yer suggest? Knowing you, a pub, no doubt!’
‘Good idea, Sis. But I was thinking o’ two or three charabancs.’
‘What for!’
‘Just think, Presteigne’s miles from anywhere. The railway only goes to Leominster. Motor cars are fer the well-to-do. How will everybody else get round? In charas o’ course. They’re the future for sure.’
Bronwyn laughs out loud. She loves her brother but thinks his fanciful ideas are ridiculous – and this is just one of many hare-brained schemes he has thought of.
Hywel turns to Tom.
‘What do you think, Tom?’
‘I should keep my thoughts to myself; it’s not my farm, or my family inheritance.’
‘No, but it soon will be. You’re entitled to a say in this.’
Tom looks a Bronwyn for reassurance. She nods her approval.
‘Well, Morgan has a point. If there’s to be no recovery in farming in the near future, it might make sense to try something else. Perhaps open a business in Hereford or Ludlow.’
Hywel is intrigued.
‘Like what?
‘Charabancs are not a bad idea. But what about a building firm? We’d have the capital, and I’m a trained craftsman. You’re all very good with your hands. We’d have a labour force of four, and Bron could run the office. She’s better at figures than all of us, and very well organized.’
Bronwyn bristles once more, wishing she had not agreed that Tom should have a say.
‘Tom, don’t you dare include me in yer plans. I want to stay ’ere.’
‘Bron, Hywel asked me what I thought. It’s only a suggestion. Don’t you think “Thomas Brothers’ Building Company” has a nice ring to it?’
‘No, I don’t! We’re farmers, not builders. Besides, I don’t want to live in a town; I’m a country girl.’
Tom turns the question back to Hywel and asks him for his view.
Hywel is weighed down by the dilemma and takes a while to answer.
‘Tom, bach, I don’t know. It’s tempting to think of havin’ a lump o’ money in the bank and the chance of a new beginning. But I ’ate the thought that I might be the one to sign away the Thomas home after so many generations.’
A good deal of scrumpy is consumed before Hywel decides that everyone should sleep on the offer and that a decision should be taken after breakfast the next morning.
When the family gathers again, Geraint and Bronwyn remain adamant that they should reject Aaron Griffiths’s offer. Tom and Morgan are still in favour of accepting and making a fresh start. Geraint makes the point that Bronwyn and Tom are being given two votes when, strictly speaking, they should only have one, but Hywel dismisses his objection out of hand.
After listening to everyone air their views once more, he gets to his feet and goes to the kitchen window, where he can see Pentry’s fields stretching into the distance towards Presteigne. It is a fine summer morning and the ground is warming rapidly. It is scene he has woken to every day of his life; to him, Pentry is heaven on earth.
Hywel has his back to his family; they cannot see the tears in his eyes. He takes a deep breath.
‘We’ll sell.’
‘No, Hywel!’
Bronwyn screams in anguish. Hywel does not turn round, but walks to the kitchen door. As he leaves, he repeats himself.
‘I’m sorry, Bron, we’re selling.’
Bronwyn pushes Tom aside as he tries to comfort her. She rushes into the farmyard and runs into the fields in a state of great distress.
No one sees her for the rest of the day. When she reappears in the late afternoon, she hardly utters a word and refuses to say where she has been, even though it is obvious she has not been doing her cleaning work.
When Aaron Griffiths appears that evening, Bronwyn refuses to be party to the decision. Hywel goes ahead without her and shakes hands on the deal. Griffiths says the paperwork will be ready by the following week.
Tom, Hywel and his brothers spend the rest of the evening talking about how ‘Thomas Brothers’ Building Company’ might work, an idea that becomes increasingly attractive the more they think about it.
Bronwyn appears just before bedtime, but refuses to talk to any of them, especially Tom, and stalks off to their little bolt-hole.
Hywel tries to reassure Tom.
‘She’ll be fine tomorrow, Tom.’
‘No, she won’t; you know her as well as I do.’
‘Do you really think we could make a success of your idea? The boys are beginning to be excited about it.’
‘I think we could. We would need to get out of Presteigne, where work is scarce. Some of the bigger towns are doing well at the moment. There’s good money there, but we’d have to be quality builders – the bigger houses, that’s where there’s money.’
‘And Bron?’
‘I don’t know, Hywel. She’s been strange lately.’
‘Get wed and give ’er a few little Crisps to worry about. That’ll sort her.’
Friday 31 July
Admiralty House, Whitehall, London
As the situation in Europe worsens by the day, Winston has been sleeping at the Admiralty all week. The Royal Navy remains at station and, although largely secret, plans for a full military mobilization in the event of war are moving ahead at a pace. Guarded by their Royal Marines, Clemmie and the children and Jack and his family are still at their holiday cottages in Overstrand.
Courtesy of Sir Edgar and Lady Speyer, the Churchills are able to speak to one another by telephone almost every day. When they do so, because Winston fears that German spies may be monitoring their calls, they speak in a childish code they have invented for themselves. They use ‘Old Block’ for Asquith, the Germans become ‘Cabbages’, the Irish are ‘Spuds’ and the British ‘Bowlers’. Ships become ‘Rum Buckets’ and the army ‘Blenheim Tinnies’ and so on.
They also write to one another daily, their letters being sent by military courier to ensure security.
Darling Cat,
As I write, I am looking over the Admiralty’s splendid curtain wall into Whitehall, where London is at peace. How strange it is. It is Friday evening, approaching midnight, the usual revellers have made their way home at least an hour ago. The mood is increasingly sombre here, all I can see beneath the gas lights are shadows. It is an eerie scene.
Eddie Grey and I had dinner with the PM in Downing Street tonight. The company was excellent, as was the claret, but the food was dire. The Old Block is a fine PM, very generous with his fine wines – which, I swear, he can consume more of at a sitting than I can – but he has the palate of a street urchin! Probably a result of his humble Yorkshire origins, bless him.
The OB was serene as always and Eddie G said again how grateful he was that I rushed back to see him last weekend. He made a point of asking me again to pass on his gratitude to you for your forbearance in disrupting our family weekend.
We talked quite a bit about my conversation last week with the Hamburg shipping magnate, Herr Ballan, who I don’t think you’ve met. It was no coincidence that I was placed next to him at dinner. We all a
greed that he was clearly on a fishing mission instigated by the Kaiser. Ballan is a charming chap in a Teutonic sort of way, but I made it clear to him that we were ready to fight if cornered, or if our friends were compromised. He will certainly have taken my words directly back to the Kaiser. Perhaps it will deter the bugger.
That the Austrians have rejected the Serbs’ acceptance of almost all their draconian terms is extraordinary. What do they want – blood? Of course they do! I see war as inevitable. The house of cards is stacked high and the slightest quiver will bring it crashing down. Make sure those marines are close to hand and have their eyes peeled and ears pinned back.
The world’s markets are stuttering to a halt, credit can’t be had anywhere. There’s panic in Threadneedle Street. The Bank Rate is at 8 per cent and Lloyd George says it will go higher. By the way, LG is playing a canny game, clever as buggery; his status in the party is rising all the time. The Stock Exchange closed its doors this morning. Thank God we have very little invested.
The Cabinet is split, more than two-thirds for peace; only Eddie and I want to take a belligerent line. But the mood of pacification won’t last. As soon as the first shots are fired, the complacency will evaporate. I’m hell-bent on us defending ourselves at the first act of aggression. How strange I am: the preparations for war and this mood of impending mayhem hold an awful fascination for me. How dreadful that I am made this way. But I am, and that’s that.
The Germans are playing a spiteful and cunning game. They are asking what our reaction would be if they promise not to take French territory – just a few of France’s colonies for indemnity – what a nerve! They say they will not invade Holland but make no mention of Belgium, which is their obvious route to Paris. Eddie Grey has written to inform them, in no uncertain terms, to bugger off. They say they just want to bloody some French noses, but believe me, my darling, their real aim is to recreate the Holy Roman Empire with the Austrians and then strike east against the Czar.
The problem is this: will our position make the situation better or worse? My view is simple. If we let them go ahead with impunity, they may well succeed and we will be faced with a continental monster as formidable as Napoleon and his Grande Armée. We must support the French at the outset and kill the creature before it can grow to the height of its power.
My darling, I’m so sorry for the diatribe. But the situation is grave, and I know you understand.
To matters more mundane. I have sent you a cheque for Pear Tree. Please have Jack scrutinize the account. I’m concerned that our bills for this month alone are over £150. The bank will be on my back again. Hodges – the weasel! – wrote to me the other day, telling me that he had received two cheques which pushed us beyond our overdraft limit. He asked what I expected him to do with them. So I wrote a little note on the bottom of his letter and posted it back to him. It just said, ‘Pay them, man!’
If it goes quiet from me for a while, it will be because the balloon has gone up. But know that I will be thinking of you and the kittens every hour of every day.
Burn this letter, dearest one.
With all my love, my darling Cat, from your ever loving, lonely husband,
Pug
After Winston finishes his letter to Clemmie, he retires to his bed on the top floor of the Admiralty, but is unable to sleep, even after he has poured himself a hefty cognac. Eventually, he decides to get some air and take a stroll across Horse Guards and into St James’s Park. He is accompanied by John Gough, a Special Branch serjeant, who is assigned to him whenever he is in London.
The night is warm, the sky clear and the moon is waxing well beyond its first quarter, casting long shadows across Horse Guards. Lights are burning brightly in Downing Street and the Foreign Office, but Winston is certain that the Prime Minister’s will not be one of them. Herbert Asquith, the sturdy Old Block, will be sleeping the sleep of the just as he always does, despite the presence of his mistress beside him.
When they reach the lake in St James’s Park, Winston sits down on a bench. He sighs.
‘Serjeant, do you have one of those new battery torches with you?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Good, then shine it over there, in the bushes, below Duck Island Cottage.’
There is a sudden flurry among the reeds, just where the serjeant is directing his beam.
‘Look, just there; see how beautiful they are.’
With two tiny balls of grey fluff frantically trying to keep pace with them, a pair of black swans, their twin cygnets in tow, come scuttling out from the foliage.
‘I’ve been watching them for a few days. Is there a more beautiful creature in the whole world?’
‘No, sir, very fine they are.’
Winston asks his minder to switch off his torch and beckons to him to sit beside him. They watch the family of swans circle for a while, as the adults look for a new refuge for the night.
‘Where is home, Serjeant?’
‘Deptford, sir.’
‘Ah, Deptford docks, the site of the knighting of Sir Francis Drake. And where Raleigh laid down his cape for Elizabeth I.’
‘My goodness, sir, you know your history! I was born right by the docks.’
‘What days those were, Serjeant, when the Royal Navy stood bulwark against the mighty Armada. I fear we face exactly the same predicament today.’
‘Will there be war, sir?’
‘Yes, Serjeant, I think we will be at war by the end of the week.’
The serjeant takes a breath and turns to his charge.
‘Well, sir, in that case, shouldn’t we get you back to the Admiralty?’
Winston smiles at the apposite remark and springs to his feet.
‘Quite so, Serjeant. Let’s make haste to our battle stations.’
Part Three: August
INTO THE BOILING CAULDRON
Sunday 2 August
Wellington Barracks, Tower of London, City of London
Harry Woodruff and Maurice Tait are again on emergency duty with the Royal Fusiliers in London. As fears about the likelihood of war heighten, they have been sent back to Green Park to be close to Buckingham Palace and Whitehall. Within the government and the military hierarchy, there are concerns about how the nation, beset as it is by internal problems, will react as the threat of war increases and the tension rises. There is particular concern about the impact war might have on the economic turmoil that is blighting the country, increasing the calls for strike action and civil unrest.
Harry and Maurice had hoped to enjoy a long Bank Holiday weekend’s leave at home in Leyton, but a telegram delivered late on Saturday afternoon to their parents’ homes had summoned them back to barracks for no later than 9 p.m. that evening.
At least they had enjoyed Friday evening with their fathers in their favourite pub, the Drum, where all the talk was of war. After views were aired and old soldiers’ stories told, it was unanimously agreed that, if it came to it, they would prefer to fight anybody except the Germans. They all knew the reputation of the Prussians of old, recounting tales of their resolve and discipline. In contrast, it was decided that the legendary Napoleonic traditions from the days of their great-grandfathers had long since disappeared and that the descendants of France’s Grande Armée had ‘gawn soft’. So, if they could pick their adversary, it would be the French; Wellington and the boys broke them at Waterloo and would do so again. On the other hand, they know that ‘Kaiser Bill’ has built a huge army, the like of which Britain has not faced since the war against Napoleon.
The talk left Harry and Maurice apprehensive. Boer farmers, tough as they might be, or a few crazy tribal warriors are one thing, but these German boys sound like they mean business and would be something else altogether.
As he promised himself he would, Harry also managed to see ‘Big Marge’ and has had a spring in his step ever since, despite the early recall to barracks and this morning’s 6 a.m. reveille.
Rumours about war – where, when, against whom – do
minate all the conversations in their serjeants’ mess. But as the two men stare out across a deserted Piccadilly on a quiet Sunday lunchtime, they find it hard to see what all the fuss is about.
‘What time is it, Mo?’
‘Nearly two o’clock.’
‘What a pain in the arse this is. I could be at ’ome givin’ Big Marge another seein’ to.’
‘You ought to be careful, you could get a dose from ’er.’
‘Nah, she’s all right, told me she hadn’t seen another fella all week.’
‘You pullin’ my chain, ’Arry? For a two-bob bit, she’d give anythin’ a Barney Moke.’
A few minutes later, Harry and Maurice take a break and stroll down to St James’s Park and into Horse Guards. They are hoping to bump into some Household Cavalry men for a bit of banter and a few well-directed insults.
As their boots crunch the gravel of the huge parade ground, they see the distinctive and dapper figure of the First Lord of the Admiralty, cigar in hand, walking towards them.
‘Eh, Mo! That’s that little Churchill fella.’
‘Bloody ’ell, so it is. Mind yer Ps and Qs, ’Arry.’
Winston salutes them, as does his Special Branch minder, John Gough.
‘Good afternoon, Serjeants; Fusiliers, I think. What are you up to?’
‘Guard duty, sir, up at Green Park.’
Harry follows up Maurice’s answer.
‘Sir, we seen you at Ladysmith … a long time ago.’
‘Indeed, gentlemen. But it was a good day.’
‘Yes, sir. S’pose, yer gettin’ ready fer another rumble.’
‘Well, not at the moment. I’m going to see my swans.’
‘Your swans, sir?’
‘Yes, on the lake. Come with us; you can help me feed them.’
Despite Maurice and Harry’s incredulity, they spend the next twenty minutes idly enjoying the tranquillity of St James’s Lake and Duck Island, with its resident black swans. Winston describes their origins and monogamous breeding habits and enthrals the men with his easy manner and broad knowledge. When he finally bids them farewell and strides off towards Downing Street, he departs with a warm handshake for both of them. As he does so, his mood suddenly darkens and he rests a hand on Harry’s arm.
The Shadow of War Page 10