She continued to make love to Tom, partly because she had to, but also because her passions of the day often carried over to the night, a sin that only worsened her feelings of guilt. Philip asked her about Tom and she told him the truth. He became jealous and asked her to keep herself for him alone, only adding to the shame she felt.
She was wrestling with her dilemma and was on the point of deciding to break off her engagement to Tom, when war intervened. When Philip told her he was leaving, it was as if the world had ended. She had no idea he was a reserve soldier. He made arrangements for Bronwyn to have access to a post office box in Presteigne and for her to withdraw her cleaning fees, much augmented by Philip, from his account at the town’s Bridgnorth Bank.
Then he was gone, summoned to his regiment and the impending war.
Bronwyn’s tears still flow on to her pillow. She is traumatized: exhausted by the intensity of her relationship with Philip and ashamed by her lustful behaviour and the web of deceit she has had to spin. Her mind spins in a whirlwind of intoxicating memories and dreadful remorse.
Philip has gone. She knows that many reservists are preparing to go to France; she may never see him again. Next to her is her fiancé, now deeply asleep, a man for whom she no longer has the same feelings she had just a few weeks ago.
Her tears soak into her pillow. Her dreams are shattered; she thinks her life is over.
Saturday 8 August
Keighley Green Working Men’s Club, Burnley, Lancashire
Despite the traditional conventions that apply to their gender, Cath Kenny and Mary Broxup have insisted on joining their menfolk for their Saturday drinking session at Keighley Green Working Men’s Club. Although they are much younger than the ‘older married ladies’ tolerated in the club, they are with ‘Tommy Brox’ and ‘Mad Mick’ – two of Burnley’s most notorious hard men – so their presence goes unchallenged.
Tommy and Mick have agreed that their wives can join them on the strict understanding that it is not taken as a precedent. Cath and Mary have also had to agree to behave themselves by not raising three taboo subjects: their support for the suffragette cause, their socialist beliefs and their commitment to pacifism, which has been nurtured by the growing opposition among some left-wing groups to the war with Germany.
Cath and Mary have been espousing anti-war sentiments all day. For the past week, the mee-maw in their mills has been all about the outbreak of war and its consequences.
At that morning’s tea break at Cath’s mill, the Trafalgar, a union official produced a copy of Labour Leader, the journal of the radical Independent Labour Party, and read out its exhortation: ‘Workers of Great Britain, down with war! You have no quarrel with the workers of Europe. They have no quarrel with you. The quarrel is between the ruling classes of Europe. Don’t make the quarrel yours.’
A very heated debate followed, which left Cath in a tiny minority who agreed with the ILP’s stance. As many fellow socialists pointed out, the left-wing Manchester Guardian has come out in favour of supporting the war, as has the ILP’s rivals, the Labour Party, and, indeed, Cath and Mary’s hero, Mr Harry Hyndman, leader of the British Socialist Party. Much the same debate happened at Daneshouse Mill, where Mary works, leaving her in a small but vociferous minority. Mary’s Irish roots had not helped her cause; accusations of disloyalty and even treason were levelled at her, including by some of her union colleagues.
Although Keighley Green’s typically carefree and raucous Saturday night atmosphere still holds sway, there are nevertheless several grave and animated discussions to be heard. Through the usual din there is much argument about the morality and efficacy of Britain’s declaration of war. One of the most contentious issues among the club’s members, almost all of whom are weavers, is the thought that the town’s colliers are certain to be excused military duty on the basis of the importance of coal to the war effort.
Phrases like ‘fuckin’ colliers’ and ‘lucky bastards’ drift by Mick’s ear – he is probably the only miner in the room – but they have no effect on him. As usual, his demeanour is remarkably placid.
In contrast, all the conversation at the Broxup/Kenny table is focused on young Vinny Sagar who, that very afternoon, has had the honour of playing in a trial match at Turf Moor for Burnley Football Club’s youth team against Blackburn Rovers’ youths.
The new season is less than a month away and Vinny is hoping he might get a part-time apprenticeship at the club, the first step to becoming a professional footballer. Burnley, currently the FA Cup holders and riding high in public esteem both locally and throughout the land, are the bookies’ favourites for the 1914–15 league title. Joining the illustrious club would be a dream come true for Vinny. His ambition is to play cricket in the summer for Lowerhouse, a famous old team based on the outskirts of the town and one of the stalwarts of the renowned Lancashire League, and football in the summer for Burnley, the leading team in the land.
That morning, he had rushed to the ground after his shift at the mill. He had no time to eat the sandwich in his snap box, threw his working clothes at his ever-present companion, Twaites Haythornthwaite, and made it on to the pitch with only minutes to spare. Nonetheless, he made an excellent impression on John Haworth, Burnley’s manager. Burnley beat Blackburn 3-1 and Vinny scored the third goal, late in the second half.
He and Twaites have been celebrating in the club since arriving at five o’clock and have lost count of how many pints of Massey’s King’s Ale they have consumed. They can just about see the bar, but most of their other faculties are fading rapidly.
‘Tha should ’ave sken me goal, it were a belter! Must ’ave been thirty yard; went in like a bullet.’
Twaites takes issue, if a little incoherently, with Vinny’s claim about the distance of his ‘wonder’ goal.
‘More like eighteen yard, our kid, tha were only just outside t’penalty box!’
John-Tommy Crabtree, the club steward, himself a fine footballer in his day and one of the town’s greatest fast bowlers, suddenly appears behind them.
‘I ’ear tha laiked fer Burnley Youths today, lad.’
‘I did, Mr Crabtree – scored an’ all.’
‘Well, tha won’t be scorin’ many more if tha keeps suppin’ ale like tha does.’
‘I’ve only ’ad three.’
‘More like six or seven. You and Twaites can ’ave one more, then it’s ’ome for t’pair o’ thee.’
Vinny tries to argue, but Tommy Brox puts his hand on his shoulder.
‘John-Tommy’s reet. One more and you’re on thy way down t’road.’
After Vinny and Twaites are sent packing to their beds, the conversation between Mary, Cath, Mick and Tommy, well lubricated by alcohol, turns to the impending war. The discussion quickly becomes strident. Mary is doubly disappointed. Not only are most left-wing groups on the British mainland supporting the war, most of her Nationalist kin in Ireland are suspending their demands for independence in order to lend support to Britain and the Empire.
‘I can’t believe it. After ’undreds o’ years, an’ just as independence were agreed, our Irish brothers and sisters ’ave bowed to their oppressors in Westminster. They must ’ave gone soft in th’eed!’
Cath nods in agreement with Mary, but neither Tommy nor Mick respond. They are eavesdropping on a loud conversation taking place at the bar, where several men in a group of weavers are arguing about the merits of Britain’s declaration of war. One of them, Jimmy Dowd, an old adversary of Tommy’s from schooldays, is as drunk as a skunk and eager for a confrontation. He has three equally belligerent friends with him as he staggers over to where Tommy and his group are sitting. Jimmy Dowd is six inches shorter than Mick and Tommy, but as wide as a barn door, and one of Burnley’s most notorious scrappers.
He gets drunk most Fridays and Saturdays when, with sufficient Massey’s inside him, he usually leads his little group of fellow nutters in a mass brawl with whichever similarly inclined pugilists they can find. The bobb
ies know to come gang-handed, crack a few skulls and then lock them up for the night.
‘So, our Tommy, what does tha reckon to this feight wi’ t’Germans?’
‘I ’aven’t thought abaht it much, Jimmy.’
‘I ’ear thy missus is not only a peacemonger, but also a fuckin’ suffragette. What abaht thee? Is tha freightened o’ feightin’?’
‘Tha knows me better than that, Jimmy.’
Jimmy turns to Mick with a sneer on his face.
‘What abaht thee, lad? I hear you’re a collier an’ a Paddy. We don’t normally let colliers in ’ere, especially Mick colliers.’
Mick doesn’t rise to the bait, but Cath does.
‘Why don’t you bugger off back to t’bar an’ ’ave another ale?’
Jimmy looks at Cath with contempt.
‘We don’t normally let young lasses in ’ere either. Unless they’re up for tuggin’ a few cocks!’
Cath manages to reach Jimmy before Tommy does and lands a clenched fist on the side of his jaw. All hell breaks loose as chairs, tables, pots and bodies go flying. Cath and Mary retreat behind the bar, where they pass John-Tommy Crabtree, shillelagh in hand, on his way to sort out the brawl.
By the time the doughty steward reaches the combatants, only Tommy and Mick are standing. Jimmy Dowd and his friends are prostrate, bloodied and bowed. Jimmy looks the most damaged. Where his nose was prominent only moments ago, there is now a mess of blood and cartilage.
Tommy looks at Mick.
‘Alreet, lad?’
‘Aye, I’m fine. I’d ’eard tha’s quick wi’ them fists. But, by ’eck, tha can ’andle tha’sen.’
‘Tha’s reet ’andy tha’sen, Mick, lad.’
Tommy turns to John-Tommy, who is still holding his shillelagh with intent.
‘Sorry, gaffer –’
‘Not thy fault. I should ’ave chucked ’em out an hour ago. Will you lads ’elp me get ’em outside? Then you can ’ave one on th’ouse.’
Later that night, as Tommy and Mick stroll home a few yards behind their wives, Mick asks Tommy about the war.
‘What dost reckon to this set-to wi’ t’Germans? Will tha feight if it comes to it?’
‘Aye, I think so. In’t it our duty to defend our country an’ our families?’
‘What abaht Cath? She won’t like it.’
‘I know, but I’m me own man. What abaht thee?’
‘I s’pose so, but Mary ’as been lecturin’ me abaht it. She never lets up. It’s our Irish roots more than owt else. She reckons that if Ireland doesn’t get independence, we shouldn’t fight. Mind you, that’s apart from not believin’ in wars in t’first place!’
‘Vexin’, in’t it?’
‘Aye, then there’s our babby on t’way. That’s thrown cat among t’pigeons; it’s a reet bugger.’
‘Well, t’feightin’ ’asn’t come to owt yet. It might all blow over.’
‘Aye, let’s hope so.’
Monday 10 August
Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, Whitehall, London
The British Cabinet has been in its fourth successive emergency session since 8 a.m. It is now nearly lunchtime. The Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, is chairing the meeting with his usual calm aplomb, but he’s tired. He is almost sixty-four years old and beginning to feel the strain of the enormous task ahead of him.
‘Mr Churchill, you wanted to make a point.’
‘Indeed, Prime Minister. If I may, would Lord Kitchener confirm that he does not feel the need for mass conscription, even though our army stands at little more than one hundred thousand men? France has four million soldiers, the Russians six million. And the combined force of Germany and Austria-Hungary stands at seven and a half million men.’
Kitchener does not look irritated that he should be asked to explain himself again after making his position clear several times. He has gone public over the weekend, openly stating that he would prefer to create a new volunteer army, rather than introduce compulsory conscription.
‘Mr Churchill, I am grateful to you for giving me the opportunity to reiterate my views. May I also congratulate you once more on the preparedness of the fleet; its status is a credit to all concerned, but to you in particular. Before I state my position, Prime Minister, I should stress that it is in no sense a criticism of my predecessors. Nevertheless, it is a fact that, while our Senior Service is the mightiest fleet the world has ever seen, the British Army is a relatively small, albeit highly trained and professional, army when compared to the hordes assembled by our neighbours on the Continent.
‘The latest figures I have suggest we are eleven thousand short of our designated strength of two hundred and sixty thousand men. Approximately half of those are on the British mainland as of today; the rest are in garrisons throughout the Empire. Obviously, our army is much more focused on the particular needs of our colonies, rather than on the strategic problems of Europe, where massed land forces are strategically vital. However, suddenly to conscript millions of men would be folly. We have none of the facilities to cope with them: we lack men to train them, barracks to accommodate them, even weapons with which to arm them.
‘Our reservists are substantial and are flocking to their muster points as I speak. But I am uneasy about putting them into combat too soon. Sadly, several battalions will be made up of at least fifty per cent reservists when they get to their Channel embarkation points.’
There is obvious consternation around the cabinet table at Kitchener’s remarks. Asquith feels compelled to interrupt.
‘Are you suggesting that the reservists are not up to scratch?’
‘Well, Prime Minister, they are all experienced soldiers and many have fought in very challenging places, including, of course, South Africa. However, by definition, they are older men and not in full-time training. Secondly, this is a war in Europe against formidable modern soldiers, whose marksmanship and training are excellent and who have heavy artillery and machine guns. I am confident that our musketry is superior to any in the world, but I would prefer it if our reservists were between ten and fifteen per cent of enlisted men, not up at around forty to fifty per cent, as in many battalions.’
‘Very well, Lord Kitchener, I think we understand. Let us pray that resolving this squabble in Europe is a brief encounter.’
As Asquith makes his comment, Eddie Grey and Winston Churchill exchange disbelieving glances. Kitchener notices the doubt on their faces and decides to speak out.
‘I fear this war may well be a protracted and bloody affair, Prime Minister. Vast numbers of men and huge volumes of materiel are about to be unleashed on a scale not seen before. If France falls, which we must pray it does not, the first phase will be over quickly. Then, God help us, we will be staring at the Kaiser’s enormous army across a meagre twenty-two miles of English Channel.
‘If France holds her ground, then a stalemate will ensue, which could be very costly indeed. Whatever happens, we need to train a new army, either to stiffen French resolve in the long term, or to confront the German Army if it dares threaten our shores. Such an army will not be created in weeks; it will take months. But the process has begun, and the reaction from every corner of Britain and the Empire has been extraordinary.’
The mood in the room darkens. A few members shift uneasily in their chairs; one or two cough nervously.
‘So, my immediate plan is in two parts. First, to get an expeditionary force of the best of our men across to France as quickly as possible, where they will hold the left flank of the French border, which, as you know, is highly vulnerable to a German attack through neutral Belgium. Secondly, beginning this very day, a long-term recruitment, mobilization and training strategy will start to build the foundations of a new citizen army for the eventual defence of Britain and for victory in Europe.’
There is a peculiar stillness in the room after Kitchener finishes his eloquent summary. It is as if the enormity of what Britain is facing has suddenly become real. The Cabinet table is surro
unded by men not averse to airing their views. Meetings are usually typified by strident debate, where men vie with one another to speak, and silence is a rare occurrence.
The Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, looks out across Horse Guards, lost in thought. The Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, stares at Kitchener, as if stunned by what he has heard. Then, suddenly, he speaks.
‘Prime Minister, I think I should like to put on record that we have many things to be thankful for, but one of them surely is that, in Mr Churchill and Lord Kitchener, we have two men at the heart of the defence of our country in whom we can have the utmost confidence.’
As cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ ring around the room, the Prime Minister adjourns the meeting for lunch.
‘We will reconvene at two o’clock sharp, gentlemen, please. This afternoon, Lord Lucas will introduce to us the new, long-term provisions being made for emergency food production by the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries.’
While the majority of the Cabinet eats in Downing Street’s small dining room, Winston Churchill persuades Kitchener to join him alone for an al fresco lunch in the garden.
‘I hope you weren’t too dismayed by my question. I know that you’ve already said what you intend to do, but I wanted the full Cabinet to hear your very persuasive thoughts in detail, especially those who go straight to Fleet Street with their tittle-tattle.’
‘Quite so, Winston. The sooner everyone understands what we’re facing, the better. We’ve relied on the navy for far too long. Our land forces are minuscule, and most of our reservists have only signed up for domestic duties.’
‘I wholeheartedly agree with you, K. We also need air power and armoured vehicles.’
‘I’m not as convinced as you about the immediate efficacy of these new devices, but they will, I’m sure, be of importance in the long run. I have more immediate issues. I’m having all sorts of rows with John French. Pressured by the French High Command, he wants to commit to an immediate landing of the entire army, with as many reservists as can be got ready. But I’m only going to commit four infantry divisions and one of cavalry. I intend to hold back the other two here on the south coast.’
The Shadow of War Page 13