The Shadow of War (5 page)

‘I know, I'll be there. Is it black tie?'

‘Yes, the girls are coming up too; best behaviour all round.'

That evening, there are so many at Blair for dinner, that the duke has instructed it be served in the Castle Ballroom, a
cavernous hall with a magnificent hammer-beam roof and a minstrels' gallery large enough to accommodate a small orchestra.

The 7th Duke, ‘Iain' to his friends, is at the head of the table. But the old boy is a widower, so Bardie's wife, Kitty, Lady Katharine Stewart-Murray, four years younger than him, is the hostess. She is intelligent, feisty and is constantly at odds with her father-in-law.

Kitty is from the ‘lesser gentry', a social stratum she regards as embodying Britain's strong moral backbone; a view firmly reinforced in her mind since her marriage to Bardie. She is contemptuous of the loose behaviour of those whose titles once defined them as her social superiors. Now, she will be a duchess herself one day. She loves Bardie, despite his own ‘weaknesses', and is determined that she will redeem him from the sins of his peers. Nor will she allow herself to succumb to the temptations of the weekend ‘bed-hopping' so relished by the Stewart-Murrays and those of their ilk.

As she looks at the dinner guests, a thin smile crosses her face. She notices the knowing glances being exchanged; she sees the false charm and the overt sycophancy. She catches Bardie's eye, who smiles at her warmly in his turn. Then she admonishes herself a little: she played her own little games with Bardie when they first met, so perhaps she should not be so judgemental.

Hamish and Geordie are there, as are two of the three daughters of the family. All three Stewart-Murray girls are older than the boys: Dorothea is almost fifty, Helen is a couple of years younger and Evelyn, something of a family ‘black sheep' who lives abroad, is yet another year younger.

Bardie's partners in the aeroplane scheme are there, but without their wives, who have been left behind in England. William Dunne is also there, with two of his designers, as are several of Bardie and his brothers' local friends. However,
there is no dearth of ladies. Bardie has been careful to invite several presentable young women from the well-to-do families of Perthshire and even a couple of socialites from Edinburgh, who have been driven up in Bardie's brand-new motor car, a midnight-blue Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. Several of the ladies will, no doubt, be very keen to make the acquaintance of the immensely rich and titled guests.

It promises to be an entertaining evening and weekend when, concealed behind the imposing walls and turrets of Blair's white-stucco, Scottish-baronial splendour, the Anglo-Scottish nobility will indulge themselves in their notorious ‘rakishness'.

As the dinner comes to an end, Kitty notices some of the more obvious pairings as they make their clandestine plans for the night. She allows herself a few lingering thoughts about the couplings to come and enjoys, briefly, the erotic thoughts she conjures in her mind's eye. Then she extinguishes them, reminding herself that they are not ‘proper' and are to be resisted if one's moral fibre is to be kept intact.

‘Nice service, Hywel.'

‘We'll miss old Rhodri.'

As people offer their condolences at the family reception after the patriarch of the Thomas family has been laid to rest in Presteigne's St Andrew's churchyard, there are many similar hollow platitudes. Disappointingly few people went to the service and even fewer have turned up to the wake, even though the Duke's Arms always does a nice shoulder of ham with fresh bread, and the family has provided half a dozen flagons of beer.

Hywel and the others smile appreciatively at the gestures of kindness. But, if truth be told, their father was always a curmudgeonly sort, who got worse as he got older and became so insufferable after his wife died that he ended up with few friends. Cathy Griffiths was the glue that held the family together, and when she contracted pneumonia during the cold January of 1912 and died within the week, life became an increasing strain at Pentry Farm. Rhodri's pride was shattered. For generations, Pentry had been able to keep a large family and the old man blamed himself that it could do so no longer.

Money became tighter as the value of lamb plummeted. And with every fall in price, Rhodri's mood darkened. All three boys had to earn extra money by working on neighbouring farms and, despite being a good scholar at school, Bronwyn was forced to take up cleaning work in Presteigne.

As the wake empties and Morgan and Geraint pour more
and more beer into themselves from the still half-f flagons, Hywel, Tom and Bronwyn are left huddled together in a dingy corner of the Duke's back parlour. It is not one of the pub's better rooms, dark and chilly with a flagstone floor and cream distemper walls. It is four in the afternoon and the pub is quiet. The shopworkers, factorymen and artisans will not be in for another half an hour and, as it is early June, the farmers are busy in their fields.

Bronwyn has put on her mother's black dress and coat and is as pretty as a picture, her long black tresses tied into a fashionable
pompadour
. It is the first time she has worn her hair up but, at eighteen, she is old enough. Indeed, it is not thought ‘proper' that a grown woman should wear her hair down unless in the privacy of her bedroom.

The room is suddenly made much darker as the huge frame of Philip Davies blocks the light. He greets them all warmly and thanks them for the food and ale, then turns to Bronwyn.

‘Bronwyn, I hear you're doing some cleaning. Clara is not too well at the moment, could you do two or three half days for us?'

‘Yes, I could, Mr Davies …'

She pauses, delighted by the offer of more work, but also a little overawed. Philip Davies is the most prominent man in the village, a towering presence, both physically and in local esteem.

‘Thank you, sir. When should I come?'

‘When are you next available?'

‘Wednesday afternoon?'

‘That's perfect.'

Davies shakes everybody by the hand before leaving. Even without his top hat, he has to lower his head to pass under the door to the back room.

Hywel is looking tired and pensive. Tom, who has taken a day off from his work as a carpenter, tries to distract him.

‘Another
mug, Hywel?'

‘No, ta, Tom. I should get those two boys home afore they empty those flagons.'

‘Come on, have another! Tell him, Bron.'

Bron grasps her brother's arm.

‘Come on, big brother, I'm goin' to 'ave one. Will you buy me a milk stout, Tom?'

‘Of course.'

‘No, you won't.' Hywel turns to his sister. ‘I don't want you drinkin' at Da's funeral, it's not proper.'

Bronwyn is feeling raw.

‘Hywel, don't you dare! I'm eighteen, a grown woman. You men are drinkin'; if I want a drink, I'll 'ave one. Tom, a milk stout,
and
a glass o' port wine, please.'

Tom, sensitive as always, knows that emotions are brittle and that a row is looming.

‘Bron, perhaps Hywel's right. Why don't we take some beer home?'

Bronwyn sees a chance to be yet more provocative.

‘Good idea, I can stay with you tonight.'

Bronwyn knows that there is no possibility of staying with Tom; he lives with his parents, plus his two younger brothers and two sisters, in a small terraced house in Presteigne. Her remark is simply intended to antagonize her brother. Quite apart from the impracticality, even if Tom lived in a palace, his parents would be horrified – except for a formal family gathering – at the thought of a girl of marriageable age crossing their threshold, especially to spend the night.

‘No, Bronwyn, don't be silly. I meant home to Pentry. I can stay in the barn.'

‘Tom, I'm not bein' “silly”; you sound like Hywel, or my father. Well, neither of you is my father. He's dead!'

She bursts into tears and rushes from the parlour. Tom gets up to follow her, but Hywel puts his hand on his friend's arm.

‘Leave
her be for a minute or two.'

Hywel looks severe, trying to sound like a man of forty, rather than a youth of nineteen.

‘Sit down, we need to talk.'

Tom knows what is coming. It is a conversation he has been dreading since Monday, when Hywel realized how close he and Bronwyn have become.

‘So how long 'as it been goin' on?'

‘Hywel, Bron's of age –'

‘That's as maybe, but I'm entitled to ask. I'm head o' the family now.'

Tom knows he has a point.

‘Since Christmas.'

‘Are you bein' careful?'

‘Course we are; we're not daft.'

‘How do yer find somewhere to do yer courtin'?'

‘Hywel, come on, man. Be fair.'

‘All right, sorry … but she is my little sister.'

‘I know! I have sisters too.'

‘I assume you'll be makin' an 'onest woman of 'er?'

‘I will, Hywel, but I've nothin' to offer her at the moment.'

‘Well, we're all in that boat. But remember, you'll answer to me if you hurt her.'

Tom takes the warning without rancour, knowing full well that it is no affront to the friendship he shares with Hywel, merely a genuine expression of the affection of an elder brother for his little sister.

‘What will you do now that Rhodri's gone?'

‘I don't know; it's a right bugger. Pentry can't keep four of us. Geraint and Morgan need to find more work, or I do.'

‘What about that girl from Knighton you've been seeing? She was very keen on you last time I saw her.'

‘Cari? She's keen, all right; fair makes me get a stalk on. But she's not a future Mrs Thomas.'

‘Hywel, if things are tight, would you consider me moving
into Pentry with Bron? I pay my ma and pa rent, but they can get by without it, so I could put that into the Thomas family's pot.'

‘There's no room, Tom. Bron only gets some privacy by sleepin' in the parlour.'

‘I'll do up your wood store. It's got good thick walls, and the roof is sound.'

‘You've been checking it out, then.'

‘I have … Bron and I have done a bit of courting in there.'

‘I bet you 'ave! But what will I do for a wood store?'

‘Put the logs in the barn; there's room.'

‘Suppose you've been doin' a bit of courting in there as well?'

Tom just smiles.

‘Well?' Hywel grins back. ‘Very well, let's shake on it.'

Tom is elated and jumps to his feet.

‘I'll go and get Bron, and give her the news. Then you can take her home.'

‘No, bring 'er back 'ere. The boys can carry on drinkin' a while, and I'll buy 'er that stout and glass o' port. You can come and stay with us tonight. As it seems it's not the first time you've spent the night in there, you and Bron can 'ave the barn!'

Keighley Green Working Men's Club is one of dozens of spit-and-sawdust drinking dens that help Burnley's weavers and colliers rinse from their throats the dust and dirt of the town's cotton and coal industries. Burnley is not called ‘King Cotton' for nothing. The mountains of bales that roll out from its 100,000 looms mean that, by some distance, it is the world's leading producer of cotton.

Like
every Saturday night, Keighley Green Club is packed. The steward, retired cricketer and local hero John-Tommy Crabtree, has his sleeves rolled up to reveal the powerful forearms of one of the town's most prodigious fast bowlers. He is pulling pints while keeping a wary eye on the rowdier tables. His starched white apron has seen better days and his stiff Gladstone collar and black bow tie are the same ones he has worn for twenty years. Prominent above the back of the bar is the heavy, lead-filled shillelagh he wields most weekend nights when the lads get a bellyful of ale inside them and lose all reason. Massey's prize-winning King's Ale is not called ‘fighting ale' for nothing.

The air is a pungent fug of honest sweat and tobacco smoke. Dozens of cheap clay pipes are being enjoyed by the older men, while ‘coffin nails' (rolled tobacco cigarettes) are the more popular choice among the younger ones.

The spittoons that sit by the bar and in the corners of the club will be full by the end of the night as the men rid themselves of the residue of the working week. Accurate and fulsome spitting is a matter of pride. Working men have to spit wads of it: grey-green in hue for weavers, black for colliers.

The tables are full of heavy glazed earthenware beer mugs, which are replenished at regular intervals by ‘pot lads' carrying huge pitchers of frothy ale. They wear brown aprons with a large pocket at the front for copper change, keeping silver coins in their pockets, well away from wandering hands.

Sporting big moustaches and dressed in their creased and threadbare black jackets, collarless union shirts and cotton mufflers, the men look like siblings of one another. There are no single women to be seen; only a few mature wives of the older men are permitted to cross the threshold of the club. And those wives need to have strong bladders, robust bowels, or few inhibitions, as the only sanitation is a long tin
lant-trough
in the yard, which serves as a urinal, and a single long-drop privy with no door.

A
painted white line, across which not even the older women may step, runs past the fringe of the bar and marks out a large open area where two billiard tables sit. They are surrounded by knots of animated men watching the challenge matches that are taking place. Adding significantly to the tension, considerable sums of money are being bet on the outcome of the contests.

At the dozen or so Britannia tables that circle the room, three-card brag – that uniquely brutal game for ardent bluffers with nerves of steel – is being played for piles of shillings and sixpences that none of the players can afford.

Close to the bar, beyond the ‘lasses' scratch' – the members' name for the strict frontier between the sexes – there is a particularly raucous table of half a dozen young men. Tommy Broxup, a burly weaver a few years older than the others, is holding court.

‘So t'new foreman, a cocky little bugger fra' Rochdale, comes up to me and says I were slackin'.'

The young lad next to Tommy is Vincent Sagar, only seventeen, his face full of freckles and mischief. A novice at nights of heavy drinking, he is all ears, obviously in awe of Tommy's bravado.

‘What did tha say to 'im?'

‘
Nowt
. But after a bit, t'lad went for a piss, so I followed 'im. Waited until he were in full flow, then I put me 'and on his shoulder. He looked round, freetened to death, and pissed down his pants. I told 'im if he ever spoke to me like that again I'd knock his fuckin' block off.'

Vinny nearly falls off his chair laughing at Tommy's story.

‘Tha's a rum bugger, our Tommy!'

Weavers are in the vast majority and rule the roost in Burnley. But there are always clashes with their redoubtable rivals in the working-class pecking order, men without peers in working-class mythology, the local colliers.

Colliers
are easily identified at the end of a shift as they trudge home to wash away the grime of the pit in the tin bath that hangs on a nail outside the back door of every terraced house. Black-faced and red-eyed, they are men coarsened by their back-breaking toil, who think weaving is ‘work for women and girls'.

The antipathies between pit men and mill men invariably escalate into fisticuffs at closing time on Saturday nights, and again during the many cricket and football matches that are played on the town's asphalt recreation grounds every Sunday.

Tommy Broxup is a frequent participant in tussles with the town's colliers, many of whom drink at the Princess Royal on Yorkshire Street, not far from Keighley Green, on the other side of the canal culvert.

The Leeds and Liverpool Canal cuts through the middle of Burnley like a Victorian Offa's Dyke. Its ‘Straight Mile', which runs along a huge embankment sixty feet above the town centre, is said to be one of the ‘Seven Wonders of Britain's Waterways'. However, the older locals have a different view; they can remember their grandparents telling them how it ruined the town: ‘Five years o' mess, £25,000 o'
brass
– fer what? Nowt but a long bath o' water!'

In the middle of the mile, a circular tunnelled culvert connects the two sides of the town. Once a fine piece of late-eighteenth-century engineering, it is now dripping with seepage from the canal above and offers dark shadows for those whose business is less than wholesome. It is home to several ‘loose lasses' who hide in its murk and is one of the most popular venues for the town's ‘cock' fights, in which its young lads use their fists and
clogs
to earn the title ‘cock' of their district, or even of the whole borough.

There are seven pubs and three clubs within fifty yards of the culvert, which provide a baying audience for the frequent
brawls that take place in the dank confines beneath the canal. Wisely, the police usually arrive when the mayhem is over and encourage the throng to go home to their beds.