The Shadow of War (12 page)

After German troops marched into Belgium on Tuesday 4 August, invading a country whose neutrality Britain had vowed to protect, King George V signed a momentous Declaration of War. The Foreign Office issued the following statement.

Owing to the summary rejection by the German Government of the request made by his Majesty's Government for assurances that the neutrality of Belgium will be respected, his Majesty's Ambassador to Berlin has received his passports, and his Majesty's Government declared to the German Government that a state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from 11 p.m. on 4 August 1914.

By midnight, five empires were at war: Austria-Hungary, Germany, France, Russia and Great Britain. All thought victory would be swift and decisive.

The Kaiser, shocked that his British cousins – allies since they had fought together against Napoleon at Waterloo – should take such a step, relinquished his honorary titles as Field Marshal of the British Army and Admiral of her Fleet. The German servants at the British Embassy in Berlin removed their uniforms, spat and trampled on them and refused to help the British diplomats pack up and leave.

The dramatic news that Britain was at war reached every corner of the nation like a shock wave. The normally peaceful Blair Atholl Estate soon became a scene of confusion and upheaval.

Two
days later, the old duke's notorious irritability has been provoked not only by the hectic activity but also by the realization that his Golden Jubilee celebration as duke of his demesne, scheduled for today – his birthday – must be cancelled.

A magnificent gathering of 2,500 guests had been expected, including the entire Scottish nobility and almost every man, woman and child for miles around. His own Atholl Highlanders were due to march past the castle in all their finery, accompanied by men from the Scottish Horse, the Cameron Highlanders, the Black Watch and a full fife and pipe band. A chamber orchestra from Edinburgh had been booked for the evening, enough catering companies were standing by to feed a small army, and Brocks Fireworks had sent its pyrotechnics experts all the way from Hemel Hempstead to organize the largest display Scotland had ever witnessed. All this has been cancelled at vast expense, lending a yet deeper shade to the duke's mood.

Of his six children, only Lady Helen is at Blair, newly arrived from Belgium, where she has been to see her sister, Evelyn, and now has to contend with her father's ire.

‘What a bloody miserable day! The boys are all off playing soldiers. Your sister Dertha is too busy thinking about how she's going to cope with her husband's new commitments. But what about me? I'm a bloody commitment; my own jubilee and not a bugger in sight to celebrate with!'

‘Don't swear so, Papa! I'm here, we can have an agreeable dinner together; I'll ask Forsyth to have a bottle of the '05 Margaux brought up.'

The old boy calms down a little.

‘I'm sorry, Helen, but I'm not keen on the idea of a celebratory dinner on such a miserable day, even with your engaging company. The place is in chaos. Half the staff have gone!'

The duke has lost his valet John Seaton, his factor Robert
Irvine, his second chauffeur David Scott, his head stalker Peter Stewart, five gamekeepers and six junior men from his household; all reservists who have been called to the Colours.

‘They've all gone off to fight for the King, thinking it's going to be a jolly, like a weekend's manoeuvres in the glens. Little do they know! I spoke to Shimi Lovat yesterday, who saw Churchill in London on Tuesday. He said it's going to be bloody. The German is a resolute cove and will take some beating.'

‘Oh, Papa, our poor boys! I'm worried for them.'

‘So am I. Hamish is somewhere in the Firth of Forth with the Camerons, George will be in Aldershot tomorrow with the Black Watch, and Bardie is running around like a blue-arsed fly, back and forth to Dunkeld, trying to get the Scottish Horse into shape. The bugger has taken all my good horses and left me just a few fat-bellied old nags.'

‘Papa, please stop swearing.'

‘Sorry, I'm just at sixes and sevens with it all.'

The old boy's face begins to mellow from fury to bewilderment. He looks at Helen wistfully.

‘How's Evelyn?'

The duke rarely mentions his third daughter, a year younger than Helen, a forsaken child, now middle-aged; he has not seen her for many years.

‘The same; her letters are lucid, as always. But when one sees her, she's as timid as a mouse. It's still difficult to have any kind of conversation with her.'

‘Her companion?'

‘Yes, she's a good sort; they seem to get on well together.'

Lady Evelyn is something of a family embarrassment. She has been withdrawn and difficult since childhood, a malady the duke is certain was caused by a notorious incident that has not been talked about since. When not much more than a baby, she was lost in deep snow for over an hour by a
careless nanny. She became ill and eventually developed diphtheria – although the duke did not accept the doctor's diagnosis, preferring to think it was ‘all in her troubled mind'.

When Evelyn finally recovered, she began to resent her mother, exhibiting an antagonism that became so entrenched it persuaded the duke, with the full agreement of his wife, to send her away into the care of a governess. She was sent first to Switzerland and later to Belgium. When she became an adult, a series of companions were found and an apartment bought for her in the old district of Malines, near Antwerp.

‘Strange child, perhaps we should never have sent her away. At least Dertha is normal.'

‘Dertha' is the family name for Dorothea, Helen's elder sister, who lives in England with her husband, Colonel Harold ‘Harry' Ruggles-Brise. Harry, in his youth a fine athlete, excelling at cricket and tennis, is a superb shot and a decorated Boer War veteran. He is now a Grenadier Guards career soldier and Commandant of the
British Army School of Musketry
at Hythe.

Helen bristles slightly at what she thinks may be her father's hint that she too might not be ‘normal'. Unmarried at the age of forty-seven, she has assumed the role of nominal Duchess of Atholl, a task she has undertaken since the death of her mother over ten years before, and has since devoted herself to her father and the estate.

The duke notices his daughter's discomfiture.

‘Helen, dearest, I didn't mean that
only
Dertha is normal. You're the most sane of all of us. I don't know what I'd do without you.'

Helen, much reassured by her father's words, moves to place her hand on his arm, but he turns away. She can see that there are tears in his eyes and knows that he would not want her to see him in a moment of weakness. He has ruled his realm for just over fifty years and fears that his private
fiefdom is about to change in ways that he will find hard to cope with.

Helen leaves him alone, knowing that he will soon be taken by carriage to one of the cottages on the estate to spend the night with his latest mistress, a humble widow from Perth who he met only a month ago. She will be his only companion for his seventy-fourth birthday dinner, an occasion that was supposed to be a glittering celebration befitting a duke of the realm. Helen feels desperately sad for him but knows that, despite his bluster, many titles and elevated status, he is a very weak and docile man, who will find contentment in the simple comforts his lover will provide for him.

Later that evening, Bardie makes a surprise return from Dunkeld, hoping to join his father for dinner. Helen, now alone, is sipping sherry in Blair's huge and ornate withdrawing room, a habit of which she has become increasingly fond.

‘Hello, Helen, where's Father?'

‘Fulfilling a social engagement.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, it's his birthday!'

Helen does not answer, but looks uncomfortable.

‘Don't tell me he's up the glen with that Grant woman?'

‘Yes, of course; he's feeling sorry for himself, and old habits die hard. He became quite melancholy this afternoon. It's a shame he didn't know you were coming, it would have made all the difference.'

‘Bugger! I was only just able to get away at the last minute.'

‘Well, he's gone; we won't see him until after lunch tomorrow. At least he might be in a better mood by then. What news from Dunkeld?'

‘Sis, it's extraordinary what's happening. The recruiting office is overwhelmed by queues of men, young and old;
there are farm boys, solicitors' clerks, teachers, factory workers. It's the same all over the country. All the old antagonisms seem to be evaporating. The strikers, the suffragettes, all are suddenly amenable, the papers are full of it. Quite remarkable! The mood is ever so jolly.'

‘Let's hope it lasts, Bardie – especially when the fighting starts.'

‘Don't be so gloomy, Helen, it will be a real adventure. The Germans can't hold the French on one side and the Russians on the other, especially without our help.'

‘That's not what I've heard; you're forgetting the central Europeans. What about all those Austrians and Hungarians?'

‘Have you been talking to your Edinburgh friend again?'

Helen has become acquainted with an Edinburgh businessman and accomplished sculptor, David Tod, a man several years her senior.

‘Bardie, don't be inane. You know my friendship with David is entirely platonic.'

‘Darling H, I wasn't suggesting otherwise, don't be so touchy.'

‘Well, David says the war will be a calamity and that we should stay out of it.'

‘Does he now! You should be careful about him. Father will be furious if your liaison becomes more than platonic.'

‘Don't be beastly! It is not a “liaison”, as you so inelegantly put it. I won't be jumping into bed with him, not at my age. But even if I did, why would it matter?'

‘By all means have a roll in the hay with him, but don't let it get serious.'

‘Why not?'

‘Come on, old girl, Father would have a fit; the man's a wholesaler.'

‘Bardie, you are an arse! David runs a number of very successful businesses and is a very fine sculptor.'

‘That's as maybe, but you know how stuffy Father is.'

‘Fiddlesticks!'

‘By
the way, your man knows bugger all about military matters. Calamity, indeed; the Germans will be sent packing within six months!'

‘Is that so? David is very well read and has been to Germany several times. Besides, he's entitled to his opinion.'

‘Of course he is, but his opinion happens to be misguided on this occasion.'

Helen feels the beginning of tears of frustration.

‘Bardie, let's not argue about war. Get yourself a drink and I'll have Forsyth serve some supper. I had promised Papa a bottle of his '05 Margaux. Shall we have it?'

‘What a divine idea! Let's start with a glass of fizz, and I'll tell you about how splendid the Scottish Horse are looking.'

It has been a long week at Pentry Farm. Tom Crisp has been working on a new shop front for Newells' ironmongers in Broad Street, while the three Thomas boys have been harvesting in their fields from dawn until dusk. Bronwyn's days have been equally long. She has now found more houses to clean in the town, which keeps her occupied for six days a week. She and Tom walk to and from Presteigne every day, a round trip of ten miles.

A truce has been called over the issue of selling the farm. The terms of the domestic armistice involve Bronwyn going off to bed after supper every night so that Tom and her brothers can discuss the details of their new building business. There is also an agreement that the subject is never mentioned within her hearing – not even by Tom, and especially not when they are alone.

Everyone accepts that the truce will only last as long as it takes for Aaron Griffiths's solicitors to draw up the legal papers for the sale. They were due to appear this week, but have not yet been delivered. As usual, Bronwyn has gone off with a
tilley lamp
and retired to the little love nest that Tom has converted from Pentry's wood store, leaving the boys to continue with the planning of their future.

They have made good progress. Ludlow is the choice of location for their enterprise. They know what kind of premises they need, how much investment in tools, equipment and transport is required and, without Bronwyn's superior
skills with numbers, have done some financial calculations that seem to suggest that the venture will be viable.

However, the news about Britain's declaration of war has led Hywel to have doubts about the whole venture.

‘Tom, bach, if this fist fight with the Germans kicks off properly, there'll be no money about.'

‘Possibly, but it could represent a big opportunity for us. There may not be as much domestic work if money gets tight, but there'll be lots of government work – army barracks, naval dockyards and the like.'

‘But that will mean moving away, won't it?'

‘Aye, it will. But think about how big the contracts will be. And there'll be a shortage of labour if lots of skilled men go off to fight.'

As Tom continues to describe the kind of work that war might create, Geraint and Morgan look at one another, impressed by his insight, and smile.

Morgan puts his arm on Tom's shoulder and fills his mug of scrumpy.

‘You're a clever sod, Tom, that's what I say.'

Geraint's face suddenly takes on a thoughtful look.

‘I've been thinkin'. Shouldn't we be decidin' about joinin' up? Lots o' boys are talkin' about it?'

Hywel adopts his head-of-family pose.

‘None of us is joinin' anythin'. We've got a business to run.'

Hywel's firm response stops any further discussion, but both Geraint and Morgan are tempted by the prospect.

After another long day on Saturday, the family decides to go to St Andrew's Church on Sunday morning for Reverend Henry Kewley's service. They are not entirely driven by religious devotion; after the service they hope to see Aaron Griffiths in the Duke's Arms to ask about the paperwork for the sale of Pentry. Although Griffiths, a fervent
Primitive Methodist
,
would not be seen dead in St Andrew's, his evangelical piety does not prevent him from being one of the Duke's most committed consumers of its landlord's Best Bitter, a potent elixir which is brewed lovingly on the premises every Thursday morning.

When they arrive for the service, Henry Kewley rushes forward to greet the family on the path to the church porch and ushers them to one side.

‘I'm glad you're here today. I was going to come out and see you this afternoon. I'll have to be brief; I've only got a few minutes before I must begin the service.' The Reverend is breathless and looks anxious. ‘I have some very bad news. Aaron Griffiths died yesterday afternoon. It's a terrible blow all round; his family are inconsolable.'

The news strikes the Thomases like a thunderbolt. Hywel is the only one able to mutter a few words.

‘We're really sorry, Reverend Kewley. Please send our condolences to Mrs Griffiths. How did he die?'

‘A heart attack, we think. He was at home, just walking upstairs; he was dead before he hit the floor …' He pauses, knowing what it will mean to the family. ‘I'm afraid that, for obvious reasons, the purchase of Pentry won't be going ahead now. I'm so sorry for all of you. Come and see me this afternoon, if you want to talk about it.'

Kewley shakes all their hands before rushing back into the church, his surplice wafting in his wake, to greet the rest of his congregation.

He also leaves a stunned silence behind. Again, Hywel is the first to speak.

‘That's an end to that, then.'

Bronwyn has mixed feelings. She is relieved that they will not be losing Pentry, but knows that there will now be no relief from their dire financial circumstances.

Geraint, impetuous as ever, asks the obvious question, but one that is better not asked.

‘What
are we going to do now?'

‘Well, Geraint, if you mean right now, much as I admire Henry Kewley, I'm in no mood for one of his sermons. Let's go to the Duke and raise a toast to old Griffiths, the man who very nearly saved our bacon.'

After two somewhat sombre hours of ‘what might have beens' and ‘if onlys', thanks to the curative effects of the Duke's Best Bitter, the gloom enveloping Tom Crisp and the Thomas family begins to lift.

The Duke, with its hotel licence, is the only pub in Presteigne open on a Sunday. As the Presbyterian and Anglican services are now over, it is full to its ancient rafters. All the talk is of war, much of it very animated and jingoistic. For over an hour, Geraint and Morgan have been part of a large group of young men at the bar, many of whom were at school with them. When they return to the corner table where Tom, Hywel and Bronwyn are sitting, they are somewhat inebriated and grinning from ear to ear. Geraint puts his arm around Hywel's shoulders rather clumsily and makes his brother spill some of his beer.

‘Morgan and me will be off your hands soon. Pentry won't need to feed us.'

‘How's that?'

‘Bron's just told us – Philip Davies let on to her this week – that he's a reserve officer in the Welch Fusiliers. He's been mobilized an' 'as already left to join the regiment.'

Geraint gulps, trying to draw breath, so Morgan takes up the story.

‘Davies 'as sent word. He's organized for a group of local lads to go to Llandrindod to volunteer.'

Morgan's words have a dramatically sobering impact on Hywel.

‘Listen, the pair of you. Neither of you've got much more than bumfluff on your chins and you're talkin' of goin' to war! Not a chance, boys.'

Bronwyn
is also horrified.

‘Bloody 'ell! Are you mad? When I told you about Philip's offer, I didn't expect it to include you two. Over my dead body – do you 'ear me? – over my dead body!'

‘Come on, Bron, for King and country … an' to save Pentry.'

‘I'm not bothered about savin' Pentry if it means you two gettin' skewered on the end of a German bayonet!'

Morgan begins to laugh loudly and act out bayonet thrusts on Geraint.

‘There ain't a German ugly enough to spear two fine Welsh warriors like me an' Geraint.'

Geraint joins in the theatrics.

‘That's right, little brother! The Welch Fusiliers are the finest regiment in Wales. We'll have those Germans on the run, back to wherever they come from.'

Bronwyn cuffs Geraint across the back of his head as hard as she can.

‘They come from Germany, you 'alf-wit! It's not your brawn that bothers me, it's that lump of lard that passes for your brain!'

Hywel brings the exchange to a close.

‘Look, you two, you're not signing up for anything, not even the Boys' Brigade!'

Back at Pentry later, the night is warm and humid. Bronwyn and Tom find it hard to sleep.

‘Bron, since when have you been on first-name terms with Philip Davies?'

‘What do yer mean?'

‘Tonight, in the Duke, when you were talking about his offer to help men join up, you called him Philip.'

‘Did I? I don't remember. If I did, it was a slip of the tongue.' Bronwyn, a little flustered, changes the subject.
‘Tom, you 'ave to help us with Geraint and Morgan. They admire you.'

‘Help you do what?'

‘Persuade 'em not to be so daft and join up.'

‘I'm not sure it is daft.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘I think it's very worthy of them to want to fight.'

‘Tom, how can you! Are you mad?'

‘I don't think so; I've been thinking I should join up myself. I like Philip Davies, and I admire him if he's prepared to give up his good job to go off and fight for his country. He must be in his late thirties.'

Bronwyn sits up and lights the candle by the bed. She looks dumbfounded.

‘Let me see yer face. Look me in the eye and say that again.'

Tom stares at her with a steely resolve.

‘I think I should join as well. I'm not Welsh, but I was born in Radnorshire, so if they'll have me in the Welch Fusiliers, then I think I should join up with your brothers.'

‘I don't believe what I'm hearin'.'

‘There are all sorts of good reasons. Without Aaron Griffiths's money, God rest his soul, Pentry is in a lot of trouble. Hywel will need to mortgage the farm to raise cash, which is a road to ruin. So it makes sense for the boys to think of other options.'

‘But what about you?'

‘Bron, this is hard for me to say. I don't want you to think that I'm not happy here. I love you very much and want to make my life with you, but all the talk about starting a business has got me thinking. I don't want our life together to be in a small town in a forgotten corner of Wales. Now we're at war, and that changes everything.'

Bronwyn begins to cry.

‘Tom, what are you sayin'?'

‘I'm
not sure, but I think if Britain calls for its young men to fight, we should answer. The Germans are challenging us and we have to stand up to them. But it's also more than that for me; enlisting gives me the opportunity to see what the world has to offer beyond our little valley.'

‘And what about us? You're talkin' about “you” all the time.'

‘I mean “us”, of course.'

‘But I don't want to leave this “little valley”. It's my home, and I love it 'ere.'

‘I know you do, but there are many valleys in many places. There are towns and cities as well, full of challenges and opportunities. I want to experience some of them, but with you.'

Bronwyn does not respond; she just turns away and puts her head on her pillow. Tom stares at her still form, not seeing the tears trickling down her cheeks.

The last few weeks have been an awful concoction of emotions for Bronwyn Thomas. Driven by powerful yearnings since early adolescence, when images of the farm animals copulating filled her idle thoughts by day and her dreams by night, she finally found sexual fulfilment with Tom. When they began to live together at Pentry, she could give full rein to her desires and sex consumed her to the point of exhaustion.

She began to plan for the life that she had always dreamed of on her beloved farm: love, marriage, children and happiness ever after. But those dreams are now in ruins.

When she ran from Pentry two weeks ago, after the row about the sale of the farm, she did not hide herself away or wander aimlessly across the fields. Nor did she think to return to find solace with Tom, her fiancé. She rushed instead into the arms of her lover, a man old enough to be her father. Now she is lying in her fiancé's bed, the bed of the man she thought she loved but now doubts whether she does.

Her
job as a cleaner for Philip and Clara Davies started well enough. Their home, just to the north of the town centre, on St David's Street, is an elegant Georgian mansion, one of the grandest in the area.

But the work is taxing, with many pieces of fine furniture to dust and polish and with paintings, porcelain and ornaments everywhere. The Davieses have a maid and a cook, but the cleaning is more than enough for one person, so Bronwyn does the upstairs and the bathrooms, leaving the maid to do the ground floor and help in the kitchen.

She hardly sees Clara, who seems to spend all day locked away in her darkened bedroom, a room she does not share with Philip, who has a room of his own. When it is time for Bronwyn to clean Clara's room, she will sit in the morning room, staring into the garden with a vacant look on her face.

Bronwyn soon began to feel sorry for Philip. His wife, still a handsome woman, tall, with long black tresses and clear, pale skin, seems to have had all the vitality drained from her. Bronwyn imagined that, for Philip, life with Clara must be like living with a ghost.

Then, early in July, two incidents turned Bronwyn's life upside down. The first came when she was cleaning Philip's study. It is full of collectibles and memorabilia, mainly books, but also ceramics, militaria and prints. It resembles an antiques shop and is a nightmare to clean.

She had finished cleaning one morning and, in need of a moment to catch her breath, sat in Philip's captain's chair at his desk. She began to pick up some prints that were lying in a pile. Always a good reader, the titles were easy for her to follow. One of them was ‘Lysistrata'. Although the words were easy to read, the images were much more challenging. Bronwyn had never seen erotica before, and the sight of women taunting men who sported grotesque, erect phalluses shocked her to the core. But the bizarre images also aroused her, making her feel very confused.

‘They
are Aubrey Beardsley's illustrations for
Lysistrata
by Aristophanes, a Greek comic playwright from antiquity, written early in the fifth century
BC
. I hope they don't shock you?'