Margaret Killingbeck has organized her nurse-recruiting tour of the hospitals of the West Midlands so that she can travel to Presteigne to fulfil Hamish Stewart-Murray’s promise to a dying Welch Fusilier.
As her mission is somewhat delicate, she decides to make some discreet inquiries at the Duke’s Arms, the town’s main watering hole. She chooses her time carefully, just a few minutes after the pub’s 11.00 a.m. opening time, when it has yet to welcome any customers and the landlord is tidying the bar for the day ahead.
‘Good morning, landlord. Would you have a room available for tonight, and dinner perhaps?’
‘Yes, indeed, miss. Our rooms all have fireplaces, and our bathroom has lots of hot water. As we’re at the end of the season, I can let you have the room for three shillings and sixpence, including dinner.’
‘Very good, I’ll take it.’
‘Your name, miss?’
‘Margaret Killingbeck.’
‘Would you like to go up now?’
‘In a moment … Perhaps you can help me with an inquiry before I do? Is there a Thomas family in the town?’
‘Well, Miss Killingbeck, this is Wales; we have a few of those.’
‘Of course! This one would have a daughter called Bronwyn, a young girl about seventeen or eighteen.’
The landlord’s jovial demeanour changes dramatically.
‘Sorry, miss, can I ask why you want to know?’
‘My mother is Welsh – also a Thomas – and she thinks Bronwyn and I are cousins.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The landlord still looks at Margaret quizzically.
‘And her brothers, of course?’
Margaret suspects the landlord may be asking the question to catch her out, but she has prepared herself well.
‘I’m not sure about any brothers; we only have an old letter from many years ago, which talks about Bronwyn’s birth.’
The landlord is a little more at ease following Margaret’s answer.
‘I didn’t mean to pry, miss, but there’s been a bit of an upset in the Thomas family. There’re lots of rumours about, which I shouldn’t talk of. But, as far as I know, only Hywel, the oldest boy, is up at the farm. The other brothers, Geraint and Morgan, Bronwyn’s twin, have joined up with Kitchener.’
‘And Bronwyn?’
‘Gone as well, miss. She was engaged to young Tom Crisp, a nice boy from the town, a carpenter. He’s gone as well, but nobody knows where.’
‘Have they gone off together?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t think so … not if you listen to the stories.’
‘Can you get someone to take me to the Thomas farm after lunch?’
‘Of course. Old Carwyn will take you up to Pentry in his trap.’
There is a biting westerly wind to greet Margaret when she arrives at Pentry Farm. The chill of the autumnal air is an abrupt reminder that, when she gets back to France, she will not only have the wounded and dying to deal with, she will soon also be fighting every soldier’s most bitter enemy: winter.
She asks Old Carwyn to wait for her, in the hope that a simple question to Hywel will produce a straightforward and brief answer. Despite the noisy arrival of Old Carwyn’s trap and the incessant barking of the farm sheepdogs, Hywel is nowhere to be seen.
‘He’ll be around somewhere, miss. Young Hywel never comes down to Presteigne no more; he’ll be around.’
Then Hywel appears from behind the wood store that Tom Crisp made into a modest home for Bronwyn and himself. He looks windswept and unkempt. He has about a week’s worth of stubble on his face and his clothes are covered in the detritus of his agricultural occupation. To add to his shabby appearance, his manner is abrupt, almost to the point of snarling.
‘If you’re from Grundy’s Solicitors, I told the last chap that I don’t know where she is an’ there’s nothing of hers left here. So you can go back to where you came from.’
‘I’m not from a solicitor’s office; I’m a nurse.’
‘So what do want here?’
‘I’m looking for your sister, Bronwyn.’
Hywel’s manner changes to a less threatening demeanour.
‘Is she in hospital?’
‘No, that’s not the reason for my visit …’ Margaret hesitates. ‘May we go inside?’
Somewhat reluctantly, Hywel guides Margaret into Pentry’s kitchen, where she is greeted with a scene of domestic chaos bordering on squalor.
‘Sorry, miss, I don’t have much time to look after the place. The farm is more than enough on its own; I’ve no time to look after the house.’
‘That’s as may be, Mr Thomas. But if I may say so, there’s no excuse for a mess like this.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing it’s none of yer business, then!’
‘Look, I grew up on a sheep farm in Swaledale, in the North of England, so I know what it’s like.’
‘Swaledale! I know all about Swaledale, half o’ my flock are “Swarddlers”, as we call ’em …’ He pauses and looks Margaret up and down. ‘You’re dressed up good and proper for a farmer’s daughter, aren’t yer?’
‘I’m not a farmer’s daughter any more; I’m a nursing sister with the army in France.’
‘So what brings you to Presteigne an’ asking after Bron?’
‘I have a couple of things that belongs to her.’
‘Well, you can leave them with me.’
‘No, I can’t, Mr Thomas; they belong to her.’
A sneer of a smile breaks across Hywel’s face.
‘Don’t suppose this ’as something to do with a certain officer in the Welch Fusiliers, do it?’
Margaret is dismayed by Hywel’s question and is not sure what to say.
‘Would you like me to help you clean this place up a bit? I can tell Old Carwyn to come back later.’
‘No, thanks, I’d rather know what it is yer ’ave for Bron.’
Margaret takes a deep breath and makes a decision. She walks outside and asks Old Carwyn to come back at six thirty. When she returns, she takes off her coat and rolls up her sleeves.
‘Let’s talk while we sort this mess out.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Hywel watches as Margaret begins to bring her nurse’s training and military discipline to Pentry Farm’s kitchen.
‘Mr Thomas, if you will tell me what’s happened, I will tell you the circumstances that brought me here.’
Hywel spends some time thinking about how to respond. Eventually, he begins to help with the clearing up. His tone becomes less hostile.
‘What ’ave you heard in town, miss?’
‘Please call me Margaret. I’ve heard nothing, other than the Thomas family has had a bit of upset and there are lots of rumours around.’
‘Well, we’ve certainly had an “upset” and there’re lots o’ rumours. Sorry to say, most of ’em are true.’
Hywel sighs, a prolonged sigh of despair, then turns to Margaret and tries to summon a smile.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Only if I make it and wash up the mugs myself!’
Margaret’s mockery does make Hywel smile. As she makes the tea, he carries on with the chores and begins his account of recent times at Pentry.
‘I knew for a while that Bron wasn’t very ’appy and things weren’t right with Tom, her fiancé. He lived ’ere with her an’ was a good friend to me an’ the boys – one of the family, really. We’d all ’ad a big setback when an offer to buy the farm fell through because the buyer died suddenly. The whole thing caused a big rift between us, an’ I thought that was what the problem was with Bron.’
‘You’ll have to drink your tea black, Hywel; I can’t find any milk.’
‘I know, I’ve had to sell our cow.’
The misery of his situation is borne out by the look of utter wretchedness on his face. Hywel then continues his story.
‘So, that was back at the end o’ July. Bron ’ad been doin’ some cleanin’ for Philip Davies for a few weeks, to make ends meet. He was a local bigwig an’ a proper gent, or so we thought. When war broke out, that brought more problems. Davies went off with the Welch Fusiliers. Not many even knew he was a territorial. One day he was ’ere, next day he was gone.
‘Bron became very moody; she and Tom rowed all the time. I don’t know whether Tom twigged anythin’ – I certainly didn’t – but about four weeks ago, Clara Davies, Philip’s wife, gets a telegram telling ’er that he’s been killed in France. She’s a funny woman to begin with, but she goes mad. She comes up ’ere shoutin’ and screamin’ at Bron, accusin’ ’er of havin’ an affair with Philip, and starts throwing all these drawings all over the farmyard. Filthy stuff that Davies apparently used to sell on the quiet. She kept shoutin’ over an’ over again, “I know what you’ve been up to with these drawings, you little whore. You’re not the first, you know!” ’
Hywel’s eyes begin to redden as he fights back tears. Margaret watches as he struggles to control himself.
‘Clara then shouts, “Now he’s dead! So your disgusting little games will never happen again.” Bron doesn’t say anythin’ at first – she’s stunned, like – but then she bursts into a fit of screaming. Tom appears, wantin’ to know what all the noise is about. He tries to comfort Bron but she pushes him away, shoutin’, “No! No! Dear God, no!”
‘So he gets angry with her. She starts on at him, tellin’ him to leave her alone. It’s obvious to him that something has gone on with Davies, and he starts shakin’ Bron. I ’ave to pull him off her. Then Clara says she knows all about a bank account that Davies has been puttin’ money into for her. It was ’orrible’ – Hywel throws his head back in anguish – ‘like the whole world was fallin’ apart.
‘Even though she was still carryin’ on, I made Clara’s driver take her back home. By the time I’d finished, Tom was already runnin’ down the road to Presteigne. Bron took about ten minutes to collect a few things before she was off ’erself. She went the other way, towards Llandrindod Wells.’
‘Didn’t you go after her?’
‘No, I should ’ave done … but, to tell you the honest truth, I was disgusted. She was my little sister and he was a middle-aged man!’
‘She’s still your sister.’
‘Is she? If she is, I don’t know her. I’ve burned those drawings; no one should be allowed to see things like that. I can’t sleep for thinkin’ about her and him. It makes me sick.’
Margaret sits down next to Hywel and puts her hand on his arm.
‘I’m really sorry, Hywel. I can’t begin to explain or excuse what happened between them, but don’t cast her out.’
‘I didn’t, she went of her own accord. And what about Tom? He’s my best friend.’
‘I know, it’s an awful situation. But Bronwyn will need help. She’s gone through hell as well.’
‘Serves ’er right. She’s a slut; there’s the truth of it. No decent girl would do what she got up to with Davies. Tom’s disappeared. Geraint and Morgan ’ave had to leave the town and ’ave gone to join up. They’ll probably get killed in the war. I’m left to try an’ hold this place together. I ’ave to go into Knighton to get what I need, because I’m too embarrassed to show my face in Presteigne.’
‘I’m so sorry for all that has happened. But I have to ask if you have any idea where she is?’
‘No, I don’t, and I don’t want to know.’
‘Hywel, she’ll need help, believe me! If you think you’re going through hell, she will be feeling just the same – if not worse. Only another woman can understand what she’s going through. If you know anything, please tell me.’
Hywel relents.
‘Clara Davies ’as got the solicitors on to me. She’s after the money Davies was sending Bron. It’s not really the money, of course – she’s got plenty o’ that – she just wants revenge. The solicitor’s man said Bron’s been seen in Cardiff, in Tiger Bay, working the pubs.’
‘As a barmaid?’
Hywel looks at Margaret with a laconic smile, then spits out an answer.
‘No, Margaret, she’s a “floozie”, a “good-time girl” – whatever name you want to put on it. My little sister is a whore to sailors and drunks and anybody else with two bob in his pocket!’
Margaret shudders in disbelief.
‘I must find her.’
‘Don’t bother! If that’s how far she’s sunk, there’s no way back. Tiger Bay is a hell on earth.’
‘I’m going to find her. If I do, will you take her back?’
Hywel takes a long time to answer. But when he does, it is with a chilling finality.
‘No.’
Margaret gets up to leave.
‘Aren’t you forgetting your side of the bargain?’
‘There’s not much to say. Captain Philip Davies died in my arms from his wounds. He was brought to me in Bavay, a small town in France, about the same size as Presteigne. He was a brave man and, if it’s of any comfort, he loved your sister. I was with an officer from the Cameron Highlanders and Philip asked him if he would give your sister a letter and a small memento when he was next on leave. The Camerons’ officer has picked up a wound himself and has been sent home to Scotland, which is why I’m here.’
Hywel walks over to the window and looks out over the farm.
‘I’m glad he’s dead. Because I’d decided that, when he came home, I’d put a pitchfork through his guts.’
Margaret looks at Hywel and has not the slightest doubt that he means what he said. Hywel turns to look at Margaret.
‘All of a sudden, prices are going up because of the war. I was thinking of letting the farm to one of our neighbours and joining my brothers with the Welch. What’s it like out there?’
‘Stay here, Hywel; it’s a slaughterhouse.’
‘Sounds about right to me. I’d rather die a quick death for King and country out there than die a slow one here, wallowing in my own shit.’
‘Don’t imagine they’re all quick deaths; many are not. Stay in Wales.’
‘I think I might risk it.’
As Margaret prepares to leave, Hywel turns away from the window.
‘Thank you for coming such a long way.’
‘Don’t go to the war, Hywel. Find yourself a local girl, stay here and raise Swaledale sheep and a family of your own.’
It has been a hectic few days for Britain’s First Lord of the Admiralty. On Monday, Winston spoke at an all-party recruiting rally in Liverpool. As usual, his powerful oratory struck a chord with the audience. But his remark that, if the ships of the German Fleet continued to hide in their ports, they would be ‘dug out like rats in a hole’, although generating rapturous applause on Merseyside, brought extensive criticism in the Conservative press. It also earned a fatherly rebuke from Asquith, who said that his words had upset the King and were hardly dignified for a Cabinet minister.
When Winston hears of the reprimand by telegram, he is travelling back to London with his friend F. E. Smith. They are eating lunch between trains at Birmingham’s New Street Station.
‘FE, much as I admire the Old Block, I sometimes wonder whether he realizes what we’re up against in this war. Bless him, he means well, but we have to stir up the British fighting spirit.’
‘I agree, Winston, but he’s your leader, not mine. Don’t you think his time’s up? He’s too much of a gentle pacifier; you need Lloyd George in Number Ten. He’ll stiffen our sinews. On the other hand, you might also consider making a run for the highest office?’
‘Too many enemies, including the King – who does not care for me – but you’re right about LG; it’s only a matter of time.’
‘Excuse me, sir.’
John Gough, Winston’s Special Branch protection officer, comes to the table and hands Winston another telegram, which he opens carefully.
‘Oh dear, FE, it’s bad news.’
Winston pauses to reread the telegram. A flash of anger darts across his face.
‘What in God’s name were they doing there!’
FE picks up the telegram. It reads:
Engagement at Broad Fourteens, close to Dutch coast, early this morning. Three cruisers sunk. Cressy, Hogue, Aboukir hit by German submarine torpedoes. 60 officers and 1,400 men believed lost.
‘Weren’t they the cruisers from the victory at the Heligoland Bight?’
‘Yes, they were. Fifteen hundred men lost! Heads will roll, FE. I met with all my senior men on Jellicoe’s flagship, the Iron Duke, only last week, when we were briefed about the submarine threat in the North Sea. I immediately issued a note ordering that patrols close to the German and Dutch coasts should cease. They’ve not taken a blind bit of notice of me!’
‘Do you want me to leak the memo to the press? You’ll get the blame otherwise.’
‘Tempting, FE, but we must appear to be united. I’ll take the bullet; it will only be a flesh wound.’
‘Yes, but it’ll sting like buggery.’ FE hands Winston his copy of The Times. ‘Look, Winston, it’s a poem from a chap called Laurence Binyon. How beautifully put!’
Winston reads the poem out loud, raising his voice so that others nearby can hear. He finishes it in tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the daytime;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
There is silence from those who have been listening, except for one man, who asks a policeman who Winston is. When he is told, he walks up to Winston and shakes his hand.
‘God bless you, Mr Churchill. We’re all right behind you. Give ’em hell!’
Applause breaks out all around. Winston acknowledges the support.
‘You see, FE, this is different. This is not a war of governments and generals, it is a war for the hearts and minds of people. It touches our very souls.’
‘Do you really think it so different? The Napoleonic Wars were fought between Revolutionary France and ourselves, trying to protect our ancient monarchy.’
‘Perhaps, but let me quote some figures: four hundred and seventy thousand men have joined up for Kitchener’s volunteer army. That’s nearly half a million men in just six weeks.’
‘But they’re amateurs. They are being sent to face a professional army that has been decades in the making.’
‘Agreed, but this is a citizen army. And if it maintains its belief in its cause, it will be formidable. Take Glasgow: a whole battalion raised from men who work on the buses and trams, and another from former members of its Boys’ Brigade. Working-class men who care about their King, their country and their empire. I would wager that, with appropriate training, they will soon be the equal of the Hun, especially given the heinous behaviour of some of the Kaiser’s men.’
‘Winston, you are an incurable romantic! But I admire you enormously and feel privileged to know you as a dear friend.’
‘Thank you, dear boy. Stay close to me over the coming months.’
When the two men are on the train to London, Winston opens a letter from Clemmie, who is close to giving birth to their third child. He has seen little of her or his children in recent days, so her words of love and support are a great comfort to him. One section, the final paragraph, makes him glow with pride.
Asquith relies on you more and more. You and LG are the only dynamic ones he has.
Don’t hang back. You rule our mighty navy with such vigour and wisdom – a navy which will surely decide the fate of this, the greatest war in all history.
I am so proud that you are in thick of it.
Your ever loving,
Clemmie
Winston immediately puts pen to paper himself.
Darling one,
I am enjoying FE’s company, as usual. Last night’s meeting was full of British Bulldog spirit from FE’s excellent Merseyside constituents – who, I believe, call themselves ‘Scousers’. A fine lot. I asked FE what ‘scouse’ means. Oddly, it means at least three things: a cheap Irish stew they eat; the name of their distinctive accent; and their name for themselves. How strange! FE mimics their accent wonderfully, in which book becomes ‘bewk’ and cook is ‘cewk’. He tells a wonderful story at the expense of his homeland.
St Peter is at the Pearly Gates of Heaven to greet a group of Scousers. As he has not met many Scousers before, he disappears to check their credentials with God. God agrees the Scousers can be admitted to Heaven, and Peter goes to give them the news. But he soon returns, looking shocked.
God asks him, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘They’ve gone!’ says St Peter.
‘The Scousers?’
‘No, the Pearly Gates!’
I thought you would enjoy the story; it made me smile, as FE always does.
Darling, I feel I am in my prime. No Black Dog in weeks. I go to France tomorrow to pep up the Royal Marines. A new phase of the war is emerging; we need to secure the Channel at our backs. Winter will soon be with us and we need to be mindful of the long term. I have been studying the maps; the city of Ypres could be the key. I will talk to John French about it.
Tell Goonie that I will also see Jack, who is with the hussars in the area. I have sent them some Admiralty 8-ton trucks to help with logistics in their support of our marines.
I think of you and the kittens every day. Kitten Number 3 will soon be with us, what a delight!
Tender love, dearest one
W
The next day, Churchill is in Dunkirk, the first of several visits to France over the coming days when, to the annoyance of many in the armed forces and the Cabinet, he takes a central role in the war on land as well as at sea and in the air.
He urges his Marine Brigade to maraud around the Belgian border area to convince the German High Command that it is a much larger force than it actually is, and to give encouragement to the local population. He orders air attacks on the Zeppelin sheds in Cologne and Düsseldorf. He also tries to persuade Sir John French to allow the army to use six-inch naval guns on the battlefield, a suggestion that the Commander-in-Chief rejects out of hand.
Winston knows the nature of warfare is changing. The intensity of the fighting and the killing power of the weaponry diminishes significantly any semblance of a code of chivalry between soldiers. As military theorist Karl von Clausewitz said it would, war has become ‘absolute’ and unrelenting, involving all the resources of the nations involved, including its innocent civilians.
After German air raids on civilians in Ostend, the Cabinet discusses the possibility of retaliating against German cities but, for the time being, rejects the idea. However, Asquith orders the mining of major parts of the North Sea, instructing: ‘Make provision on a Napoleonic scale to deploy those infernal devices freely and even lavishly.’
Reports also come in of German infantry units using white flags of surrender in order to entice British units out of their defensive positions before firing on them. Churchill is incensed and issues an immediate order to the Grand Fleet.
All transports believed to be conveying German troops are to be sunk at once by gunfire or torpedo. No parley with or surrender by a transport on the high seas is possible.
He later adds more instructions to the order.
There is no obligation to recognize a white flag. Sir John French has found it necessary to order instant fire to be made on any German white flag, experience having shown that the Germans habitually and systematically abuse the emblem. Consequently, any white flag hoisted by a German ship is to be fired upon as a matter of principle.
Chancellor of the Exchequer David Lloyd George delivers a chilling speech at the Queen’s Hall in London, one that he discusses with Winston beforehand.
‘Should I be so bold, Winston?’
‘Yes, they will listen to you. You will make the nation think. It needs to think long and hard about what we face in the coming months and years.’
Lloyd George takes Winston’s advice and makes his speech. One passage, in particular, sends shock waves across the land – especially among those who have lived with years of prosperity and privilege.
A great flood of luxury and sloth, which has submerged the land, is receding and a new Britain is appearing.
We can see for the first time the fundamental things that matter in life and that have been obscured from our vision by the tropical growth of prosperity.