Before Blair Atholl’s weekend guests catch the lunchtime train back to London, Bardie Stewart-Murray is anxious to show them and his fellow investors the fruits of three years’ hard work trying to perfect William Dunne’s flying machine. Despite a long weekend of daytime shooting and highly raucous night-time revelry, transport to Glen Tilt Aerodrome has been organized for 7 a.m. Breakfast has been sent up and served in one of the large hangars.
Bardie has been holding back from showing his guests Glen Tilt in order to spring a surprise. He has been in correspondence with Winston Churchill, Britain’s First Lord of the Admiralty, for some time about their mutual interest in aeroplanes. On Saturday morning, he received a telegram from the Admiralty stating: ‘WSC, First Lord, accompanied by CSC, will anchor in Firth of Tay, Sun 7th. Will be at Glen Tilt Mon 8th, 7.30 a.m. sharp.’
Bardie immediately cancelled the planned visit to Glen Tilt he had arranged for Saturday, citing ‘technical difficulties’, and rescheduled for Monday morning. Despite the fact that heavy drinking and other forms of wickedness were still going on at 3 a.m., all the guests have appeared and, apart from some pastiness around the gills, look fresh and are turned out immaculately. After all, debauchery is no excuse for slovenliness.
Bardie has only confided in his father and William Dunne about Churchill’s visit. The former, not fond of Liberals, is unimpressed, the latter is rushing around like a man possessed.
Kitty, Bardie’s wife, is curious about the breakfast.
‘Champagne in the Glens on a Monday morning, Bardie. What’s the occasion?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘You mean the damn thing flies!’
‘Of course it does. Don’t tease; you’ve seen it fly many times.’
‘So why the champagne?’
‘We’re expecting a guest.’
‘Really, and who would that be? The Kaiser, perhaps?’
‘Kitty, don’t be beastly. Actually, it’s Churchill.’
Kitty suddenly sheds her sarcasm.
‘Goodness! Well done, Bardie; I rather like him.’
‘Hmm, I’m afraid Father doesn’t.’
‘Your father doesn’t like anybody very much – particularly me.’
‘That’s because he thinks you’re a suffragette.’
‘I’ve told him countless times that I have no truck with the Pankhursts. But because I have a tongue in my head, I must be both a suffragette and a socialist in his eyes.’
‘Darling Kitty, he thinks I’m a socialist because I don’t agree that men should work for a pittance and not be able to feed their families.’
Kitty and Bardie’s banter is interrupted by the loud horn of a jet-black Admiralty car sent from Rosyth to transport the First Lord to Blair Atholl and its secret aerodrome. It pulls into the open space in front of the assembled breakfast gathering and, to the amazement of all, out steps Winston Churchill with his wife, Clementine, in his wake. He heads smartly for the duke, full of effusive geniality.
‘Your Grace, good to see you again.’
He then turns to Bardie and Kitty, and does the rounds of the guests. Kisses and handshakes are exchanged.
‘Ah, champagne! From the slightly pale complexion of your guests, I gather you still know how to throw a party. Must have been quite a weekend.’ He takes a generous gulp from his goblet and turns to the duke’s butler. ‘Good morning to you …’ He pauses.
‘Forsyth, sir.’
‘Good morning, Forsyth. Splendid morning! Do you happen to have any oysters?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t, sir; not very fresh in Edinburgh yesterday. But his lordship asked cook to prepare some plovers’ eggs for you. She has sent some fresh bread, which we can toast for you if you like.’
‘My goodness, this is heaven on earth! Thank you so much, and tell the cook she will assuredly go to heaven.’
Winston ushers Clementine to join the elderly duke at his table and begins to demolish his eggs. As he does so, he takes charge of proceedings.
‘Bardie, your hospitality is beyond reproach. Now let’s see how this contraption of yours performs.’
William Dunne takes his cue and signals to his mechanics at the adjacent hangar to wheel out his latest prototype. Dunne is not the showman that his mentor William Samuel Cody was, but he tries his best to introduce his marvel.
‘Your graces, my lords, ladies, Mr Churchill, this is the D8, developed here at Glen Tilt by the Blair Atholl Syndicate Limited. It is the next major step in man’s triumph over gravity.’
So far, so good, thinks Bardie. Dunne continues, trying, without too much success, to add gravitas to his delivery.
‘The D8 is powered by a water-cooled, four-cylinder, sixty-horse-power engine. It directly drives a four-blade pusher-propeller, which saves considerable weight compared to the chain drives of previous prototypes.’
Bardie looks around at the gathering. Although Churchill and his investors are still engrossed, his father is already staring up at the high sides of the glen looking for roe deer, while the fixed smiles of his sisters and those of Kitty and Mrs Churchill are beginning to strain.
Dunne carries on regardless.
‘The D8 is a tailless four-bay unstaggered biplane, my speciality, with its wings swept at 32 degrees. The outer struts are enclosed with fabric, forming fixed side curtains that provide directional yaw.’
Dunne suddenly catches Bardie’s eyes, which are imploring him to stop talking and to fly his contraption. All but Winston have glazed over and are shuffling their feet impatiently. So D8’s designer cuts short his technical outline, dons his flying helmet and clambers aboard a craft which looks for all the world like an oversized children’s kite.
With its inventor at the controls, its propeller kicks into life with an ear-splitting roar and, despite its bizarre appearance, D8 makes bumpy progress down the glen. It shakes and rattles like an old boiler, but when it eventually becomes airborne, the propeller’s sound suddenly becomes melodious and its struts, props and canvas take on the elegance of a bird in flight. It flies over Glen Tilt for nearly twenty minutes. Dunne, now in his element and feeling confident, is even able to fly low over the aerodrome and take his hands off the controls. Only a few feet from the ground, he waves to his audience as he passes. There are gasps from those watching, even the old duke smiles.
Winston is full of admiration.
‘Very good show, Bardie.’ He goes over to Bardie’s investors and shakes their hands. ‘Three lords a-laughing! I’m not surprised; very well done, gentlemen. This is a big step forward.’
When Dunne lands his plane, Winston is there to greet him.
‘Mr Dunne, you have made dramatic progress. You have the future in your hands. Literally. Please, keep going.’
Still beaming, Winston turns to Bardie.
‘Clemmie and I are staying in my Dundee constituency tonight, so we have time for an early lunch. Shall we adjourn to Blair? I’d like to have a word with you and your backers.’
A casual buffet lunch is prepared at Blair Castle, during which Winston guides Bardie and his investors into the garden.
‘Gentlemen, I know you have a train to catch, but I wanted to have a quiet word about your project here. It is very exciting; you must continue, full bore.’
Natty Rothschild bristles slightly.
‘We shall, Winston, rest assured. But as you know, we’re only financing it because the army withdrew its funding.’
Bendor Grosvenor then makes his feelings clear.
‘There is only so far we can go as private investors. The War Office has to do more.’
Winston takes a deep draw on his cigar, sticks out his chin and exhales flamboyantly.
‘I know, they turn the word “conservative” into a blasphemy. I’m sorry. But I am trying to bring flight under the wing of the navy, if you will forgive the pun. I’ll get my way, but you must give me time.’
Billy Wentworth-Fitzwilliam asks the obvious question.
‘How much time?’
‘Give me nine months. I have approval for my naval budget for the rest of the year, but I’ll work on the PM for the autumn review. He realizes the Germans are ahead of us, and the gap is widening. Asquith knows that only too well, but there are many doubters in the Cabinet. I’m working on them. Please keep going until March.’
Bardie walks towards the window and looks across the glens towards the east.
‘Winston, this situation with the Kaiser, is it serious?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. It is a growing threat. I fear he will not stop until he has his way with the French –’ Realizing that he may be sounding too alarmist, he breaks off and lightens his tone. ‘So, gentlemen, look to the east and give me time.’
The four men look at one another for a moment before giving hesitant nods of agreement.
Winston, now in the mode of the jovial politician, shakes their hands and bids them farewell.
‘Safe journeys to London. And don’t worry, I’ll have flying under the navy’s wing very soon. Fear not, gentlemen, we will all be flying around in those things before you know it. You’ll make a fortune.’