‘Well, Tommy, on that basis, how can I refuse?’
The following evening, at five thirty on the dot, to the bewilderment of the twenty or so spectators and to the chagrin of the Lowerhouse Third Eleven, Henry Hyndman, founder of the British Socialist Party, opens the batting for Burnley Cricket Club’s Thirds. Over seventy years old, and several stones heavier than when in his prime, he bats with the trousers of his heavy woollen suit pushed into his socks and tucks the bottom of his beard into his waistcoat. There are many in the crowd who remark on the uncanny resemblance to the great cricketing legend, ‘The Champion’, Dr William Gilbert Grace.
Tommy also opens, but is out for two in the second over, bringing in Vinny Sagar, Tommy’s pal and the club’s most promising youngster. When Hyndman has to retire an hour later to catch the train to Nelson, he has scored 78 off just 51 balls, including 3 sixes and 13 fours, with Vinny contributing a commendable 16. The great socialist leader leaves the field to a standing ovation and a handshake from the members of both teams.
Tommy is the last to grasp his hand.
‘Thanks to thee, Henry.’
‘Thank you, Tommy; I hope you go on to win.’
‘We will. Vinny’ll get fifty, he ollus does, and we’ll make a hundred and sixty, thanks to thy seventy-eight. They’ll be lucky to get a hundred and twenty.’
‘It was my pleasure, Tommy. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.’
Tommy walks over to the boundary with Hyndman and beckons to one of the spectators to escort his guest to the station.
‘Tell me, Henry, this socialism malarkey, every bugger bein’ equal an’ all that, will it ever ’appen?’
‘Undoubtedly, Tommy. In fact, it already has – for example, during the Paris Commune, and a few other places – albeit briefly. If we can persuade men like you to believe in it, instead of old fuddy-duddies like me, it will happen for certain. And soon.’
Tommy is lost in thought as he watches his guest leave. Then the opposing captain bellows at him. It is his turn to umpire.
‘Art laikin’ Tommy, or what?’
Burnley Thirds win the game easily.
That evening, Mick and Cath Kenny and Tommy and Mary Broxup are sitting with the team to enjoy a few post-match drinks in the Lowerhouse’s small wooden pavilion. Cath is a teetotaller and is only drinking ginger beer, but Mary is fond of Mackeson, the new milk stout that is growing in popularity.
The men, who have played in their working clothes, have stripped off to their vests and trousers and taken off their clogs and socks. Mary and Cath are still wrapped in their long voluminous skirts and petticoats, their head and shoulders covered by heavy Lancashire shawls, the standard dress for mill workers. Only well-to-do ladies wear the latest Edwardian styles with pleated skirts, tailored jackets and feathered hats.
Cath is concerned that young Vinny is quaffing ale as quickly as Tommy and Mick.
‘Our Vinny, tha doesn’t ’ave to drink them pints as quick as these two daft buggers.’
Mary agrees.
‘Our Tommy were a grand cricketer an’ could laik a fair game o’ football until he started suppin’ ale by t’gallon.’
Tommy springs to Vinny’s defence.
‘Stop moitherin’, woman, t’lad’ll be alreet. Let ’im enjoy his ale.’
Mick thinks it’s a good idea to change the subject.
‘So, Tommy, tha were impressed wi’ Hyndman’s battin’, but what abaht ’is politics?’
‘Aye, he can bat; he’s a proper cricketer. He’s what, seventy? Not bad fer an old ’un.’
Mary notices that Tommy has not answered the other part of Mick’s question.
‘An’ his politics?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinkin’. He meks some good points, I’ll give ’im that. Mary’s told me abaht that Paris Commune thing. But it’s all them long words – prola … terrion … or summat.
Cath comes to his rescue.
‘ “Proletarian”, Tommy; that’s us, t’workin’ class.’
‘You mean them as got nowt!’
‘Reet. T’socialists want to end all that an’ create a fair an’ equal world.’
‘It’ll ne’er ’appen, lass.’
‘Oh it will, Tommy. Won’t it, Mary?’
‘I ’ope so, Cath. But it means daft buggers like this lot comin’ to their senses.’
Mary begins to raise her voice.
‘Dost tha’ know, you men, two million o’ thy comrades are on strike down south reet now? London’s buildin’ workers, dockers, an’ all sorts; they’ve bin out fer weeks.’
Tommy tries to calm his wife down.
‘Mary, keep thy voice down. We’re in a cricket pavilion, not a public meetin’.’
‘I won’t keep me voice down! You lot need to listen, an’ all t’other men in ’ere. That Mrs Pankhurst were arrested last week fer t’eighth time. An’ they’ve been force-feedin’ t’suffragettes fer years; it’s not reet.’
Tommy rises to the bait, but with a mischievous grin on his face.
‘There’s some what reckon they should be flogged. Or their husbands need to give ’em a good seein’ to!’
Mary is livid and clips Tommy around the ear. It makes little impact, and he starts to laugh loudly. So Mary picks up his half-empty mug of beer and throws its contents in his face. There is a sudden silence in the pavilion, and Tommy’s expression changes dramatically. Mick sees what’s happening, rests his hand on Tommy’s arm and nods at Cath to get Mary home.
‘Tha’ll be needin’ another pint, our Tommy. Vinny, ged ’em in.’
Mary bursts into tears as Cath leads her to the door, where they bump straight into Nat ‘Twaites’ Haythornthwaite, who has arrived to join the evening’s drinking.
‘Eh, what’s up ’ere, then?’
Mick pulls him into a chair.
‘Shurrup, Twaites, an’ sit down.’
Part Two: July
DEATH IN A DISTANT LAND
Saturday 11 July
Pear Tree Cottage, Overstrand, Cromer, Norfolk
Winston and Clemmie Churchill have taken a small Norfolk cottage for the summer. Clemmie, the children and their nanny have been there for almost a month, while Winston comes up from London by train most weekends. On this occasion, he came ashore from HMS Enchantress on Friday, leaving the Admiralty yacht anchored at sea, much to the fascination of locals and holidaymakers alike.
Unlike many grander holiday retreats in the area, Pear Tree Cottage is a modest abode. It has three bedrooms and a bunk room and is hidden down a narrow lane a few yards from the small cliffs that fall down to the North Sea. Overstrand and nearby Cromer have become very fashionable holiday destinations since the old Prince of Wales stayed here in the 1890s. As a consequence, several of London’s well-to-do have built large seaside villas along the coastal road.
Winston’s younger brother, Jack, and his family have taken Beehive, a similar cottage nearby. The cottages bring back fond memories for the Churchill brothers as the area was a favourite resort of their mother’s when they were small. Despite the six years between them, Jack and Winston have been close since childhood. They served together in South Africa, where Jack was badly wounded and was mentioned in dispatches. They have also shared the many stigmas attached to their family, especially the rumours that their father, Lord Randolph, died of syphilis and that their mother, the New York-born beauty Jennie Jerome, later Lady Randolph Churchill, has had many lovers, including the old king, Edward VII, when he was Prince of Wales.
Lady Randolph is only recently divorced from her second husband, George Cornwallis-West, an officer in the Scots Guards who is the same age as Winston and who is renowned for his charm and virility. She remains one of London’s most glamorous women and is still notorious, even at the age of sixty.
With both Winston and Jack at Overstrand for the weekend, sandcastles on the beach are the order of the day. Like Winston, Jack holds a commission in the Queen’s Own Oxfordshire Hussars as a reservist and has the same passion for all th
ings military. As Winston did before him, Jack spent many happy hours playing with the family’s unique collection of tin soldiers at their ancestral home, Blenheim Palace. With the image of their ancestor the Duke of Marlborough at the moment of his great victory in the Battle of Blenheim in 1704 staring down at them from the huge tapestries above, the boys would dream of victories past and glories to come.
A wide stretch of Overstrand’s golden sands has taken on the appearance of a battlefield. As usual, Winston is playing the role of Marlborough, in command of the armies of Britain and the Holy Roman Empire, while Jack is Marshal Tallard, commander of the Franco-Bavarians.
‘Puppy, try to manoeuvre Chumbolly so that he refrains from sitting on our artillery!’
‘Puppy’ is the family name for Winston’s daughter, Diana, who will soon celebrate her fifth birthday. She has been told of the crucial importance of Marlborough’s artillery at the Battle of Blenheim by her father since before she could walk. So she tries earnestly to persuade ‘Chumbolly’ – her younger brother, Randolph – not to sit on the square of sand that represents Captain Blood’s artillery battery. Unfortunately, Chumbolly is only just three and not yet familiar with Churchill family lore, so is oblivious to all attempts to clear his rump from a crucial sector of the battlefield.
Jack, nobly playing the role of the soon-to-be-vanquished Tallard, only has his son, Peregrine, ‘Pebbin’, on his side. But Pebbin is only a year old, so Jack’s wife, Lady Gwendoline, ‘Goonie’, has been enlisted to carve out the lines of the French and Bavarian infantry. Winston, who has a pet name for everybody, calls Jack and Goonie’s family the ‘Jagoons’.
Clemmie smiles to herself as Winston barks out his orders.
‘Now, Puppy! Push on with the infantry!’
Winston has borrowed one of Chumbolly’s clockwork trains for a squadron of British infantry. But as Puppy pushes it through the sand towards the French line, the little Chumbolly bursts into tears and crawls after it, destroying the entire British left flank and bringing an entirely novel ending to the legendary Battle of Blenheim. Goonie summons the nannies to gather up the children, all of whom are now crying, while Jack goes off for a quick swim.
Winston and Clemmie are left sitting on the sand. Winston is suddenly quiet.
‘What’s the matter, Pug?’
‘Oh, nothing, darling.’
‘Come on, I know when something is troubling you.’
‘It’s just a shiver from the past. Watching dearest Jack in the sea; it reminds me of an unfortunate experience we had years ago.’
‘In South Africa?’
‘No, in the lake at Ouchy, in Lausanne, when we were boys. I nearly killed us both, and it was my own stupid fault.’
Clemmie recognizes the sudden change of mood she has seen many times before. Winston looks at her like a little boy lost.
‘We were sailing on the lake. It was a beautiful day, not a breath of wind. We decided to go for a swim, so I lowered the sail and in we went. We’d been in the water for about ten minutes, diving down to see how far we could go, when the wind suddenly got up and opened enough of the sail to get the little boat moving. I told Jack to stay where he was and started to swim towards to it, but every time I got close, the wind pushed the confounded thing away. I don’t think Jack knows to this day how perilous our position was; we were a long way from the shore and I was getting very tired. Suddenly, I saw Death as near as I think I have ever seen him.’
‘Oh, Pig, how terrible! Why did you never tell me?’
‘I’ve never told anyone. I made one last attempt and just managed to grab the side. It was my last ounce of strength; after that “Two Little English Boys Drowned in Lac Léman” would have been the next day’s headlines in the Swiss newspapers.’
‘Darling, don’t get yourself upset. It was a long time ago.’
‘I know, and we’ve both cheated Death several times before and since. But I fear for Jack if this thing in the Balkans flares up.’
Clemmie knows that the political situation in Europe has been worrying her husband for days and causing his increasingly sombre mood. She knows enough of the background through listening to Winston and is aware that the murder in the Balkans of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, has created a dangerous crisis.
‘The assassination?’
‘Yes, there have already been riots in Vienna. It seems that the royal carriage had almost no protection and that the Serbian military was behind the plot. I fear this is only the beginning. Like the high tide, which will come later today, forces are in play that we may not be able to stop.’
‘Come on, Pig, enough of depressing subjects! Goonie and the nannies are doing all the work with the kittens; we must help with tea.’
‘Puss, do you mind if I go for a stroll along the beach? I need some air. Jack will help with tea.’
‘Mr Black Dog again?’
‘I think so, darling; he’s been sniffing around lately. The Unionists are getting me down, and now those lunatics have murdered the Archduke. I need to clear my head.’
‘Don’t let Mr Black Dog come too close; fight him off, be a brave soldier.’
‘I will, Puss, I always do. But be patient with me.’
Winston’s bouts of depression are often intense and can be prolonged. Clemmie has suggested all kinds of remedies – from pills and potions to German psychiatrists – but her husband is proud and stubborn. He bumbles along in his own way until he eventually shakes off his dark moods.
That night, the two Churchill families leave the children in the care of a local nanny and are guests of Sir Edgar and Lady Leonora Speyer at their nearby home, Sea Marge. Speyer is a wealthy Jewish banker and a very good host. He normally enjoys Winston’s wit and stories, but on this occasion very little of either is forthcoming.
The evening drags until, unwittingly, Speyer hits a raw nerve by asking Winston’s brother, Jack, a simple question.
‘So will you go back to the Hussars if the balloon goes up?’
Winston’s face reddens.
‘No, Jack bloody won’t! I want him behind a desk if, as you put it, the “balloon goes up”. There will be carnage on an unimaginable scale. It won’t be cavalry and sabres; it will be machine guns and six-inch howitzers!’
Clemmie manages to change the subject and, thoughtfully, Speyer pours Winston another drink.
‘I’m sorry, Winston, you’re down here for a weekend’s rest, not to talk about war.’
Winston smiles thinly at his host, but says very little throughout the rest of the dinner.
Nor does he say much at breakfast the next morning or, indeed, for the rest of the weekend before he is rowed out to Enchantress to resume his duties on Monday morning.
A few days later, Clemmie receives a letter from her huband.
Darling Cat,
I felt so forlorn as you and the kittens slowly faded from view when I left on Monday. I know I behaved atrociously at dinner on Saturday, please convey to the Speyers my heartfelt apologies – good people, they don’t deserve an ogre like me at their dinner table. Hope the Jagoons didn’t take anything to heart, I was only thinking of Jack.
I’m feeling much better – now immersed in all the shenanigans before the Ireland Conference, which begins next week. It will be a brawl, but at least it’s made Mr Black Dog slink back into his corner.
Missing you, darling one; kisses for the kittens. Hope to get to Pear Tree on the 24th or 25th.
Your ever loving,
Pug
Sunday 12 July
Kettledrum Inn, Mereclough, Burnley, Lancashire
The Kettledrum Inn sits on the edge of the wild moorland above Burnley. Behind the rustic little pub, the vivid summer colours of the moors create a scene as pleasing on the eye as any you can imagine. On the other side, the view is less appealing, where the dry-stone walls of Red Lees Road snake through the fields towards the distant gloom of the town.
However, for once, the vist
a looks relatively clear and people can breathe fresh air for a change. It is the end of Burnley Fair, the traditional two-week annual wakes holiday for the entire borough. The mills, pits and most of the shops are closed. Two-thirds of the population are either at the seaside at Blackpool or taking day trips into the Dales. The foul chimneys are at rest, with not a hint of smoke from any of them. The steam engines are still; their boilers and flues are being cleaned and painted. The weaving sheds are being swept and the tunnels and shafts of the pits are undergoing annual maintenance and inspection.
Everyone is streaming back home to be ready for tomorrow morning and another year of toil. Today is the last chance for the families and friends of Tommy and Mick to enjoy their well-deserved holiday. They have had a couple of days in Blackpool, climbed the local beauty spot, Pendle Hill, been to the fair in the marketplace several times and made the annual pilgrimage to see Jack Moore’s monkey down Barden Lane.
As Sunday promised to be warm and sunny, they decided to walk up on to Widdop Moor and take a picnic with them. It is now seven o’clock on Sunday evening, opening time at the Kettledrum, and they have timed their descent from Widdop perfectly – although their timing didn’t need to be so precise. Despite the licensing laws, the Kettledrum has been open all day. It is a long way from Burnley’s police station, and the pub has been the venue for an illicit gathering to join in the ancient Pennine trap and ball game of Knur and Spell.
Vast amounts of money have been gambled on how far the local professionals can hit a small pottery ball across the moorland with a long flexible mallet. All over the pub’s garden, and the nearby moor, there are groups of men sleeping off the effects of the afternoon while, wisely, the winner of the contest – who pocketed over £30 – has long since gone home with his considerable victor’s purse. The local winner is often the great Jerry Dawson, born within the range of a long hit from the Kettledrum, the goalkeeper at Burnley Football Club and one of Knur and Spell’s longest hitters.
Tired and scorched by the sun, the wanderers from Widdop need a few drinks before walking back into town. Thankfully, it is downhill all the way to their homes. When Mick sees the human residue from the afternoon’s activities, he grins.
The Shadow of War Page 7
