by John Masters
‘I hope the war will be over by then,’ she said, struck by a sudden dread that it might go on till Tim was old enough to be sent out to it … even Dicky, the flesh of her own body, now just a year old and being given his supper by Nanny in the day nursery upstairs.
Richard said, ‘So do I, of course, so do we all … though it will cause severe problems, with all that demand suddenly cut off, as though by the turn of a tap. But we’re working on finding new markets … The JMC may do all right, but HAC …’ he shook his head. ‘In spite of what Guy believes, I don’t see how we can sell many aircraft in peace.’
‘Then you might have to close HAC down?’ Susan said.
He nodded – ‘Yes. You can’t burke facts. Bomber aircraft are used up fast in war – not in peace. If we turn them into passenger aircraft, they still won’t be used up fast – one hopes.’
‘So a lot of men will be out of work?’
‘There’s going to be a great deal of temporary unemployment, when you think of the shell factories, the shell-filling factories, the military equipment factories, the … well, I can’t think of any industry that will not suffer, except perhaps the pleasure industries. People are going to spend a lot of money on enjoying themselves when this is over.’
If they have any money left by then, Susan thought; but not aloud.
Richard returned to his office in the JMC rubbing his hands together, Morgan, the works foreman, at his heels. He sat down at his desk – ‘That went very well, I think, Morgan, don’t you?’
‘Too well, if you ask me,’ Morgan said. ‘I’d have liked to hear some grumbling, muttering in the ranks … but they didn’t say a word, and after you’d finished they just went off to their jobs, still not talking to each other.’
‘They’ll get used to the new procedures,’ Richard said. ‘Are the new machines going to be installed on schedule?’
‘Yes. By the fourteenth of next month. Except for the second overhead travelling crane. Can’t get that in till the end of July.’
The secretary’s buzzer buzzed and her small voice said, ‘Mr Albert Gorse to see you, sir.’
‘Bert!’ Richard exclaimed. ‘Well, show him in.’
A moment later Bert came in, escorted by the secretary. He eyed the two men as the secretary went out, carefully closing the door behind her – ‘Morning, Mr Morgan,’ he said. ‘Morning, Mr Richard.’
‘Good morning, Bert,’ Richard said. ‘What can we do for you? A job perhaps?’ He laughed; he had employed Bert before, and sacked him for inciting a riot at the plant. He had no intention of re-employing him.
Bert said, ‘The Union of Skilled Engineers has decided that JMC and HAC must become union factories – closed shop, USE factories … We at HE 16, the local branch, want to know whether you’re going to help us, or try to stop us.’
Richard opened his mouth to speak but Bert held up an imperious hand and continued – ‘If you help us, we’ll work out a good contract for our members – your employees … and we’ll see that it’s fair to you, too, as the employer. And then we’ll see that the contract is lived up to. There’ll be no unauthorised work stoppages … no wildcat strikes or walkouts, no go-slows or work-to-rule … If you try to stop us, threaten or punish the men who want to join – we’ll organise your factories just the same, and then we’ll break you.’
Richard, pale with anger, said, ‘Break me, and you’ll break the factories. Then how many men will be out of work? … But you won’t break me, or the factories, and you won’t organise them. I will not have a union, and that’s final.’
Bert said patiently, ‘Look, Mr Richard, you’re an educated man, and I’m not. You ought to see what’s coming in this country, because I can … We’re going to be tied to the Yankees, dependent on them, especially for money. You already are, we all know that. But the Yankee bankers don’t live here – they don’t know what the British working man wants, what he’s thinking – and they don’t care. They want efficiency, higher profit on capital, more output per man. But our blokes want to be sure they aren’t going to be thrown out on the street, after twenty years, p’raps, just because the Yankee bankers want to put in more machines. You think you won’t be your own boss here if it becomes a union factory. But are you now? Mr Stephen Merritt and his board are the boss. That may be all right for you, but it’s not for us – the men and women who work here and at HAC. They want a hold on their own lives. And that’s why we’ll have no difficulty organising the two of them.’
Richard shouted, ‘Go to hell! Get out!’ Bert, who had been standing throughout the meeting, his cloth cap on his head, turned and left without another word.
‘Swine,’ Richard muttered.
Morgan said, ‘They’ve been getting members secretly for some time. They have about forty. Now they’ll work harder at it, and they’ll get more men. Women, too. That’s how they’ll take it out on us, for the new methods and machines … especially the ones who think they’ll be got rid of, when the new programme’s in top gear.’
Richard said, ‘We’ll do what I think must be done, to increase productivity. If we go under, we’ll go under fighting. But if we go, the rest of British industry won’t be far behind.’
Daily Telegraph, Friday, May 17, 1918
ITALIAN NAVAL FEAT
DREADNOUGHT TORPEDOED
Our Italian Allies Have Just performed a naval feat of extraordinary daring by torpedoing in the harbour of Pola an Austro-Hungarian Dreadnought. Wiring from Rome on Wednesday, Reuter’s correspondent says that the Chief of the Naval Staff has issued the following communiqué:
‘In the early hours of May 14 Lieut-Commander Mario Pelligrini, of Vignola (Modena), Torpedo-Gunner Antonio Milani, of Lodi, Leading Seaman Francesco Auglini, of Syracuse, and Leading Stoker Giuseppe Corrias, of Cagliari, with rare courage, praiseworthy individual self-sacrifice, and the greatest military and naval skill, eluded the active observation of the scouts and searchlights, and penetrated into the very strongly fortified military port of Pola. There they repeatedly fired torpedoes into a large battleship of the Viribus Unitis type.
‘At dawn our seaplane squadrons, arriving in succession over Pola, found enemy-chasing planes already up. Our pilots brought down two enemy machines and forced another to land. All our machines returned safely to their bases.’
Extraordinary and daring, indeed, Cate thought; but what was happening on the Western Front? He turned to the headline – GREAT AIR FIGHT DURING RAID INTO GERMANY – and began to read.
Garrod came in silently, laid two letters beside his plate, and went out. Cate glanced at the letters. One was a brown envelope, addressed in Quentin’s handwriting, with a Field Post Office postmark and censor’s stamp. He put the newspaper aside, waited a moment to steady himself, then opened it.
Dear Christopher: Laurence was tried yesterday by a General Court-Martial, on a charge of deserting his commanding officer when under orders for action against the enemy. He was found guilty and sentenced to death. The finding and sentence are subject to confirmation by the Army Commander. I attended the court and can assure you that the proceedings were strictly fair. Laurence was defended by a Royal Field Artillery captain who was a barrister before the war. He brought out every point in mitigation that could be thought of by any of us. The facts of his desertion are unfortunately not in doubt; and were confirmed by six witnesses of all ranks. The court was assisted by a Deputy Judge Advocate General – another barrister — who saw that all proper rules were kept. The Court consisted of a Major General as president, two brigadier generals, and two lieutenant-colonels, all except one from front-line infantry units. Laurence tried to plead guilty, but the Deputy Judge Advocate General at once told the president that was not permissible in a case where the charge could carry the death sentence. So the proceedings were carried out just as though he had pleaded Not Guilty. I am sorry I have to write this letter but I must tell you the truth. We must now wait to learn whether the Army Commander will confirm the finding and sentence
. I will write as soon as I hear, which will not be for a week or two, as it is considered a very important case from every point of view. Yours affec. Quentin.
Cate put the letter down. His eyes ached harshly, but there were no tears. After what Quentin had told him in an earlier letter, about Laurence’s two separate disappearances in battle, it was not possible to believe that the Army Commander would do anything but confirm the sentence … Could there be a pardon, somehow? But how could they pardon an officer when private soldiers had been shot by firing squads for the same offence? Haig’s ‘backs to the wall’ message to the troops would be important, too, for Laurence had run away just when the Commander-in-Chief was most depending on him, on every officer and man …
Margaret, he thought. She must be told. She had not answered or acknowledged his earlier notice in the Irish Times. He would put in another, giving details … but would the censors pass it? It would not be easy to word … Isabel would help him, but … He buried his head in his hands. Isabel was in California.
He heard the slow footsteps and did not look up. Stella had come down to breakfast. She said nothing. Surely she had seen him, his head in his hands? Heard him sobbing, deep in his chest?
Slowly he looked up. She was helping herself to a kipper, and turned as he watched, to look dully at him, and say ‘Good morning, Daddy.’ Then she sat down and began to eat.
Chapter 9
Walstone: Wednesday, May 22, 1918
PROP X. So long as we are not assailed by emotions contrary to our nature, we have the power of arranging and associating the modifications of our body according to the intellectual order. Proof. – The emotions, which are contrary to our nature, that is (IV.xxx) which are bad, are bad in so far as …
Garrod came silently into the library and said, ‘Mrs John Rowland to see you, sir.’
Cate put the book down unwillingly. The long dead Spinoza offered more comfort to him these days than Louise’s fierce energy. He said, ‘I’ll go to the drawing-room.’
‘I’m in the middle of cleaning it,’ Garrod said.
‘Oh. But why you?’
‘Tillie’s in bed with this flu, sir. I haven’t had time to tell you – she only took bad after breakfast.’
‘Well, bring Mrs Rowland in here, then.’
He put the leather-bound volume back in its place on the shelves and waited, looking out of the tall windows, his hands in his pockets.
Louise came in, walking fast. She embraced him quickly, then – ‘Any news?’
He shook his head. ‘Quentin said it would take time. Sit down … a glass of sherry?’
Louise was small and plump and birdlike, her thick untidy brown hair turning grey, the brown eyes not friendly as they used to be, but sharp, and rimmed by little lines of anger. She said, ‘I’m going to make the NCF take up Laurence’s case. It’s barbaric that he should be shot. How could he know what this horrible war was like? And he should never have been sent out in the first …’
‘I know. He actually asked me once if he could go into the Church. I ignored it …’
Louise said bluntly, the accent of her native Yorkshire becoming stronger – ‘No use crying over spilled milk, Christopher. We’ve got to save him. I’m going to get them to organise demonstrations against any executions – any at all, arising out of the war. That way, we’ll avoid people focussing on the fact that he is an officer … and we’ll get sympathy from a lot of fathers and mothers who will think, my son might be in the same shoes.’
Cate said, ‘It’s not public knowledge. Nothing has been published about it.’
‘No,’ Louise said energetically. ‘They don’t want to remind people that these things are happening. But we’ll publish it, shout it from the housetops.’ She saw the pain in Cate’s face at the idea of all the world knowing of Laurence’s tragic failure, and added carefully, ‘It’s the only way to save him.’
Cate said, ‘I suppose so … I wish they’d let me change places with him. He has a useful life to live for England. I … it’s finished, everything I’ve lived for – the village, the people, the land itself … swallowed up by the war.’
Louise said, ‘It isn’t as bad as that, Christopher. Walstone will never desert you, so don’t desert them … us. I must go. The train leaves in an hour and I have to get some medicine for John.’
‘John? Is he sick?’
She nodded – ‘It looks like this influenza. He’s feeling miserable.’
‘Shouldn’t he have some nursing?’
Louise said, ‘Perhaps. But who’s to give it? The girls are tied up on the farm, I’ve got to go to London for Laurence’s sake, and yours. John will have to take his chances … I’ll call you on the telephone tomorrow morning to tell you how I got on.’
Cate was shaving by an open window in his bathroom, looking out over the mirror at Walstone spread out in the valley below in the May morning. But there was something unusual … smoke … the baker’s chimney must be on fire … no, the smoke cloud was too far off to be the bakery. It was beyond the village, somewhere down Scarrowside … close to Probyn Gorse’s cottage. He finished shaving quickly, dressed, and returned to the window. Now flames were visible, and the smoke was towering high. Closer at hand someone was pedalling up the drive as hard as he could, straining and rocking from side to side on the seat of his bicycle. It was Billy Haversham, the fourteen-year-old son of the publican of the Beaulieu Arms. He rode past and round to the kitchen door. Cate went downstairs. Garrod was there, waiting at the foot of them. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘Probyn Gorse’s cottage is on fire. Billy Haversham …’
‘I saw. Is he here?’
‘Yes, sir. Here, Billy.’ The boy, who had been lurking in the shadows further down the hall, came forward, touching his forelock. Cate said, ‘Has anyone been hurt, Billy?’
‘Don’t rightly know, sir,’ Billy said, his tone jumping from treble to bass in the uncertain manner of boys whose voice is in the process of breaking. ‘I was running down to see when Mr Fulcher caught me and told me to get my bike and come up here and tell you.’
‘Thank you, Billy. You can go back now. I expect they’ll need every hand they can get down there.’ To Garrod he said, ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’ He thought a minute. It would take longer to get Willow saddled than it was worth. He grabbed one of his walking sticks, and calling ‘Keep the dogs back,’ slipped out through the front door, and set off as fast as he could walk down the slope and then across some fields, heading straight for Probyn Gorse’s cottage.
When he got there Probyn and his Woman were out on the nettle patch in front of the cottage, together with fifty men and women, led by PC Fulcher. They were all staring at the smouldering remains of the cottage’s roof. The thatch was gone, and the beams which had supported it were charred and smouldering but not burned through. Some men were setting up a ladder against the front wall, and first one climbed it, then another, then another; and others passed them buckets of water from the Scarrow and the man on top of the ladder hurled the water of each successive bucket at the beams.
Cate pushed through the crowd to Probyn. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
The old poacher turned, his face haggard, the black eyes no longer snapping, the dried-apple cheeks fallen in – “Tis a punishment on me,’ he croaked. ‘Mother warned me … she told me!’
The Woman, beside them, did not turn her head but stood silent, watching the efforts of the firefighters, her arms folded on her bosom.
Cate said, ‘What do you mean, Probyn?’
Probyn said, ‘My mother told me to give it up … poaching, she called it … and I swore I’d do it if I could. But I couldn’t. I took two of Lord Walstone’s cock birds only the day before yesterday.’ He turned away, his back to the cottage.
Cate said to the Woman, ‘Do you have any idea what caused it?’
She shook her head without speaking. Fulcher came up and said, ‘Sorry the water’s going down inside, Probyn, but we must get those beams doused.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Probyn said. ‘Nothing to spoil in there.’
‘I took a look inside,’ Fulcher said. ‘There’s some scorching of bedclothes, blankets, and the like, but soon as you get a new roof on there, ’twon’t be long afore you can go back.’
‘I’ll never live there again,’ Probyn said sepulchrally. ‘My mother warned me.’
Cate walked forward and peered in at the front door. Fulcher was right. Miraculously little damage had been done. The thatch had burned straight upwards, and very quickly. He turned to the constable – ‘Where’s Joe … and Peter and young Vic? I thought they were supposed to be in your emergency fire brigade.’
Fulcher said, ‘Down with the influenzie, sir, every last one of them … and plenty more.’
A bulky figure burst through the back hedge and advanced on the crowd, chewing a big dead cigar. The constable said, ‘Good morning, my lord. ’Tain’t as bad as it might have been.’
Lord Walstone shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, and said, ‘They can’t live in here till they get a new roof. That’ll take time. And money.’ He strode forward to confront Probyn and his Woman – ‘Anyone hurt? What about your ferrets and that dog?’
‘Got the ferrets out,’ Probyn said. ‘The Duke’s free at night. He’s here.’
Lord Walstone said, “Appy to hear it. Get your clothes together. I’ll send a car down for you at ten. You can spend a few nights in the Park, and maybe in one of my cottages afterwards.’
Probyn looked thunderstruck. ‘In the Big House, my lord? Us?’ He turned to his Woman, obviously needing her guidance, whether to accept or reject. She said nothing, did not even turn her head.
Walstone said, ‘Well, that’s settled then. I must get home. Can I give you a ride back to the Manor, Cate?’
Cate said, ‘There’s nothing more to be done, is there?’