The Shadow of War (8 page)

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 things 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

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 vista 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.

‘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.