The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  ‘Bugger me, there’s bin a reet good do ’ere. There’s lads all over t’place; they look like they’ve been shot!’

  Vinny Sagar and Twaites Haythornthwaite, who are both unattached, have joined Mick and Cath and Tommy and Mary for the day. They are at the bar ordering the first round of drinks, with plates of stew and ‘hard’– the local delicacy of cow’s foot and marrow stew – served cold on tin plates with crispy havercakes.

  The four senior members of the group are sitting outside enjoying the cool evening air.

  Cath is grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Afore t’lads come back, me an’ Mick ’ave got summat to tell thee.’

  Mary’s eyes start to widen in anticipation, before her friend continues.

  ‘I don’t want them two young ’uns to know just yet, cos it’s early days, but I’m expectin’.’

  Mary shrieks, but is quickly hushed by the others. Even so, she cannot stop herself hugging her friend. Tommy grabs Mick’s hand and shakes it vigorously, until the return of Vincent and Twaites puts an end to the celebrations.

  Vinny, always a live wire, makes a flamboyant show of placing the pots of ale on the trestle table in front of his friends.

  ‘There, first o’ many.’

  Twaites digs him in the ribs with his elbow.

  ‘Go on, get ’em told.’

  Vinny also has some news that he is desperate to impart.

  ‘Football lads are back in trainin’ tomorrow.’

  Tommy has noticed the self-satisfied smirk on Vinny’s face.

  ‘Which “football lads”?’

  ‘Burnley.’

  ‘You mean at Turf Moor?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I’m seein’ Mr Haworth tomorrow neet. He’s gonna ’ave a sken at me.’

  The open mouths around the table are soon replaced by handshakes and kisses of congratulations. Vinny is already a very promising cricketer but, before the Burnley Fair began, one of the Burnley Football Club’s scouts saw him playing football for Burnley Boys Club. He immediately recommended him to John Haworth, Burnley’s manager and the man who, in just four years, has transformed the team from English Football League mediocrity to being the best team in Europe.

  Burnley won the FA Cup in April, beating Liverpool 1-0 at Crystal Palace in front of the King and 70,000 fans, over 30,000 of them from Burnley. The town has been gripped by football fever ever since. The team is full of England and Scotland internationals and has just returned from a tour of Europe, where they beat the best teams in Germany, Hungary and Austria.

  ‘Does that mean tha’ll meet Tommy Boyle?’

  ‘Aye, I reckon so.’

  Tommy Boyle is Burnley’s captain and part of the impregnable half-back triumvirate of Halley, Boyle and Watson. Tommy cannot contain himself.

  ‘Bloody ’ell! Freeman, Mosscrop? Jerry Dawson?’

  ‘Aye, all of ’em.’

  Tommy jumps to his feet.

  ‘Mick, come on, lad, we need more ale. This is gonna be a grand neet, except fer Vinny, he’s goin’ on t’ginger ale from now on!’

  It does become a grand night, after which the friends make their way home via a succession of pubs until they get to Burnley town centre, where each of them go their separate ways.

  As they walk the short distance to their home in Hart Street, Tommy asks Mary about Cath’s pregnancy.

  ‘Dost tha think she meant to get in t’family way?’

  ‘I’ll ask Cath when I see ’er, but I wouldn’t ’ave thought so. At least they’re now in Burnley, it would’ve been a reet bugger if they’d still been in Colne, wi’ Mick ’avin to travel all that way to t’pit.’

  Mick and Cath have just moved to Stoneyholme, which is within easy walking distance of Mick’s pit at Bank Hall, Burnley’s biggest colliery, and not far from Cath’s mill in the Weavers Triangle.

  ‘Dost think they’re wed, or livin’ o’er t’brush? I’ve ne’er talked to Cath abaht it.’

  ‘Dunno, I’ve ne’er asked Mick. Either way, it’s gonna be ’ard fer ’em. As me mam used to be agate, “Weddin’s nowt, ’ousekeepin’s all.” ’

  Mary stiffens with indignation.

  ‘Aye and tha’s not t’first and won’t be t’last. Not until summat’s done abaht how families feed th’sels when t’wife ’as childer.’

  ‘We can ’elp ’em, lass, can’t we?’

  ‘Aye, we can.’

  Mary stops and looks up at Tommy.

  ‘Know what, our Tommy? When tha’s got thy temper fettled, tha’s a good lad.’

  Tommy cranes his neck to kiss his wife.

  ‘When are we gonna ’ave a little Broxup?’

  Mary pushes him away coyly.

  ‘Not yet, tha daft bugger! We need a few more bob in t’Co-op before we start thinkin’ o’ childer. Besides, there’s talk o’ war brewin’ in Europe.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In t’Balkans.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Don’t know, but they say it could spread.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be coming ’ere, will it?’

  ‘Don’t suppose it will.’

  Tommy squeezes Mary suggestively.

  ‘So abaht this babby.’

  ‘Bugger off, yer big lummox, wait til we get ’ome!’

  When the two of them get home, Tommy and Mary enjoy with relish one of the few things that Burnley’s impoverished circumstances and limited horizons cannot deny them. Tommy, local hard case, and Mary, vociferous renegade, have a volatile relationship. He is old-fashioned and is frequently disconcerted when he finds it hard to follow Mary’s thoughts and ideas. She finds Tommy’s temper and penchant for violence abhorrent, but admires his courage and strength.

  They are an odd mix, but very much in love.

  Wednesday 22 July

  Wellington Barracks, Tower of London, City of London

  Serjeants Maurice Tait and Harry Woodruff have just arrived at Wellington Barracks, the London headquarters of the Royal Fusiliers. The barracks, a fine Victorian Gothic building in the heart of the Tower of London, is grand enough to house 1,000 men and was built in the 1840s by the Duke of Wellington while he was Constable of the Tower.

  With revolution in the air in Europe and the Chartists rampaging for political reform in Britain, the Conservative government of Sir Robert Peel had feared a working-class uprising and a significant strengthening of London’s military barracks was seen as a wise precaution.

  In the midst of a similarly febrile atmosphere, Maurice and Harry’s C Company of Fusiliers, 180 men under Major George Ashburner, has been sent to London to provide an experienced military presence and to be on standby should trouble break out.

  Particular shivers of alarm have been felt in the corridors of power in recent weeks after it was discovered that hundreds of police officers have been joining a fledgling union in secret; a chastening fact for the government. Strikes have been endemic for three or four years and working-class discontent is growing. Strong hints of similar dissatisfaction among police officers are seen as potentially disastrous. In the week of the King’s Buckingham Palace Conference on Home Rule for Ireland, security resources are stretched to breaking point and nerves are taut.

  Maurice and Harry are enjoying a breath of air and a mug of tea with their immediate superior, Company Serjeant Major Billy Carstairs. Maurice treads carefully when asking Billy, another veteran and a notorious disciplinarian, about the reason for the long journey from the Isle of Wight.

  ‘So, Sarje, what’s the story?’

  ‘The usual; backin’ up the bobbies, in case of a barney. There’s talk of lots of junior policemen not being very happy with pay and conditions.’

  Harry, always more forthright than Maurice, is less inhibited with their CSM.

  ‘They should be so bloody lucky. I’m not very ’appy with my lot an’ I ’ave to get shot at by Fuzzies, Wogs and Boers!’

  ‘I should keep those thoughts to
yourself if I was you, Harry. The brass is all nerves at the moment.’

  ‘What, about a few strikers? They’ll always be up in arms.’

  ‘It’s not just that; they’re worried about the Micks. And then there’s all the talk of war in Europe.’

  ‘You mean over that archduke what got shot?’

  ‘Apparently. If the Austrians kick it off, then they’ll all be at it: the Frenchies, the Ruskies, the Fritzes. Threats are flying around between ’em all.’

  Maurice starts to smile.

  ‘So who’ll we be fightin’ this time? The Russians, like me old fella?’

  ‘No, Major Ashburner says they’ll be on our side.’

  ‘So it must be the French.’

  ‘No, they’ll be on our side as well.’

  Harry looks perplexed.

  ‘So, who then, Sarje?

  ‘The Germans and Austrians, Harry.’

  ‘Bugger me, I’d rather fight the French; the bloody Germans are tough sons of bitches.’

  For the next two days, C Company waits in reserve in Green Park, close to Buckingham Palace. The assignment is tedious, not the sort of job professional soldiers enjoy at the best of times, let alone on the streets of their own capital city. The soldiers are asked to keep a low profile and stay close to their lorries.

  By Friday evening, the Buckingham Palace Conference has ended without an agreement between the Irish Nationalists and the Ulster Unionists. But in the press, and within political circles, Ireland suddenly seems to be a minor annoyance; all the talk is of war.

  But not on London’s streets. The weather is warm, the pubs and restaurants are full, and everyone is looking forward to the weekend.

  Maurice and Harry have settled themselves down under a tree close to Piccadilly and are watching people make their way home. Maurice smells the air and soaks in the bustling atmosphere of the city. The streets are full of colour and life. Everyone is on the move. The noise of car horns fills the air, horses’ hooves clatter on cobbles, the street vendors holler; the noise is almost deafening. But it is a comforting din, because it is normal and reassuring. The familiar mingling aromas of exhaust fumes, horse dung, restaurant fried food and stale beer are being carried on the breeze.

  ‘This beats the bloody Isle of Wight, mate. Good old London town!’

  ‘Too right, Mo. Don’t you just love it?’

  Harry, always on the lookout for a pretty girl, can see plenty to tickle his fancy.

  ‘Better class of girl up west, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You’re not wrong, ’Arry. Look at that little filly over there!’

  ‘Bloody hell, she’d fair make you hot under the collar.’

  ‘She would that, lovely curly hair; I reckon I could make it curl a bit more given ’alf a chance.’

  ‘Just watching ’em is making me ’orny. If we get some leave at the end of this little jaunt, I think I’ll be tapping on Big Marge’s door.’

  ‘Good luck; you’ll need a big ’ammer and a big nail!’

  ‘You been there?’

  ‘Might ’ave.’

  ‘You dirty little feather-plucker.’

  Maurice carries on gawping but changes the subject.

  ‘You know what the CSM was talking about the other day, a coppers’ union and all that? Well, I had a chat with a couple of ’em the other day, down by the Palace. It’s true, the peelers are not ’appy.’

  ‘Join the club! Who is, these days? The toffs are larfin’, but the rest of us just ’ave to grin and bear it.’

  ‘I know, ’Arry, but it’s a bugger when the Old Bill is starting a union and talkin’ about goin’ on strike.’

  Friday 24 July

  Pear Tree Cottage, Overstrand, Cromer, Norfolk

  Weighed down by ominous events at home and abroad, Winston Churchill has caught the lunchtime train from London to enjoy a weekend with his family. He spends the afternoon with his brother, Jack, discussing the worsening situation in Europe. Later he declines a Churchill family dinner, preferring instead to spend the evening with his wife, Clemmie.

  ‘Are the kittens asleep, my darling?’

  ‘They are, Pug. Nanny has turned in; all is quiet.’

  ‘I should be taking you out to dinner, but I wanted this weekend to be just the two of us.’

  ‘How sweet of you. I can’t think of anything better. Supper is in the oven, ready in fifteen minutes.’

  Winston pours wine for both of them and sits by the fireplace staring at the empty grate.

  ‘May I talk shop for a while? I’m greatly troubled, my darling, and you are always such a comfort to me.’

  Despite her heavily pregnant midriff, Clemmie pulls up a pouffe, wraps herself around her husband’s legs and rests her head on his lap.

  ‘As you will have read, the King’s conference on Ireland at the Palace, although well intentioned, has achieved nothing. It stumbled and fell on what I consider to be no more than an inconsequence: the bloody boundaries of Tyrone and Fermanagh! They are prepared to take Ireland to a civil war over a few miles of bog and moor, and drag the rest of us into it. The King does not know which way to turn, and the Cabinet is split down the middle. Jack says, “Bugger the lot of them, and impose a solution from Westminster!” ’

  ‘I tend to agree with him, Pug. There is only so far one can go with blind obstinacy.’

  ‘Well, after several hours of debate on it during Cabinet, with the PM his usual urbane self, Eddie Grey was passed a note. When he read it to us, the already sombre mood darkened like a gathering storm. It was the Austrians’ note to the Serbs, following the assassination, quite the most shocking set of demands I have ever heard – so draconian that no country could possibly agree to them. It was a declaration of war, not an ultimatum.’

  Clemmie squeezes her husband tightly.

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘War, my darling, a most terrible war, which it will be impossible for us to avoid. The trials and tribulations of the humble parishes of Tyrone and Fermanagh are but nothing compared to the behemoths glowering at one another in Europe.’

  ‘Surely it can’t be as bad as all that.’

  ‘I’m afraid it can, Cat. War is like the coitus of the beast; it is relentless and all-consuming, and only abates when its lust is sated.’

  ‘What a terrible picture you paint! Do you really think it will come to all-out war?’

  ‘Indeed I do. I fear for Jack and for you and the kittens; nothing will be the same again. Eddie Grey, who is an erudite and perceptive soul, is sure we are at the precipice and said so to a Cabinet that sat and listened to him in stunned silence. They looked like frightened rabbits – except Asquith, of course, who looked like a benign headmaster – while Lloyd George just kept shaking his head. Grey is very depressed.’

  ‘And you? Is Mr Black Dog lurking?’

  ‘Strangely, he isn’t. Despite the impending horror of it all, I feel exhilarated by these events. I don’t know why, but I am; awful, isn’t it? The thought of impending battle invigorates me. Perhaps it’s in my inheritance, but if there’s a fight in the offing, I want to be in its vanguard. It was true in South Africa and at Omdurman, and it’s still true now.’

  ‘My darling Pug, many men are the same. Don’t fret about it, it’s the nature of the male of the species.’

  ‘Are we really so simple?’

  ‘Yes, you are; but you are no ordinary warrior. You are a general, a leader of men.’

  ‘You know me so well, sweetest thing, but you are in danger of making my notorious ego even more inflated. Perhaps a little unwise, given my weary reputation in certain quarters?’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. I can live with your ego, and so can those who are devoted to you. As for the rest, bugger them!’

  Tears form in Winston’s eyes. Clemmie is everything to him; she is both his emotional anchor and his political confidante. He kisses her warmly and caresses her swollen belly.

  ‘Come, Cat, let’s eat and get you and k
itten number three to bed. I suspect tomorrow will be a long day. There is a car coming in the morning from the Admiralty. We will have four handsome Royal Marines for company. They are here to protect you and the kittens for the time being.’

  There is a look of horror on Clemmie’s face.

  ‘Good God, has it come to that already?’

  ‘Just a precaution, darling, no need to be alarmed. Come, let’s eat. I have to go to Cromer post office at eight tomorrow morning to telephone Lord Louis and agree the disposition of the 1st and 2nd fleets.’

  Winston’s gaze is fixed on the back of the empty grate of Pear Tree Cottage; the furrows in his brow become ever deeper. Clemmie gets up, but not without some difficulty, to retrieve supper from the oven. Although it is the end of July and the day has been warm, she feels the sudden chill of the evening. It strikes her like the icy gauntlet of winter. She thinks of her children upstairs and the one coming to fruition in her womb. She looks back at Winston, hunched in his chair, a cigar in one hand and an almost empty glass of claret in the other.

  ‘Darling, your glass needs refreshing, and so does mine.’

  The next morning, Winston has his conversation with Prince Louis of Battenberg, the First Sea Lord. A special operator has arrived with the marines to take charge of Cromer’s telegraphy, much to the annoyance of the incumbent, who has served the community loyally for several years.

  When Winston returns to Pear Tree Cottage, Clemmie, Jack and his wife, Goonie, are waiting to hear his news.

  ‘Well, the navy has never been more ready. I have ordered that, as a precaution, they do not disperse to their home ports, but remain on standby at their stations. However, the encouraging news is that Serbia has accepted the outrageous demands of the Austrians!’

  There is look of astonishment on Jack’s face.

  ‘But that’s extraordinary!’

  ‘I know, I find it hard to believe. I didn’t think any nation would accept their draconian terms. Let’s hope Vienna calms down now. But come, let’s gather our forces on the beach; it’s time to relive past glories!’