The Shadow of War (6 page)

Tommy's most famous encounter ‘under t'culvert' happened a few months earlier. It was a pre-arranged fight with Joe Smalley, a big lad with a lot less brain than brawn. Joe had heard tales of the speed of Tommy's fists and the strength of his blows and had tucked a 3lb blacksmith's hammer into the back of his belt. Before blows were exchanged, following the usual courtesies, Tommy went to shake Joe's hand.

‘No gougin', reet?'

Joe did not accept Tommy's handshake and seemed very tense; his answer was only a mumble, hardly audible.

‘Aye.'

‘Cloggin' or not?'

Joe did not answer but, to the dismay of everyone there, pulled out his concealed hammer and started swinging it. He was suddenly like a man possessed.

‘Come on, Broxup, let's see 'ow fuckin' 'ard y'are.'

Tommy ducked several times, but Joe caught him with a heavy blow to the edge of his right shoulder, making his renowned right fist all but useless. Tommy had to think quickly and attacked in any way he could. He threw himself at the big collier, knocking him to the floor, taking the wind out of him. He used his right knee to pin Joe's left arm to the ground and his own left hand to hold his opponent's right wrist.

Without a good right hand, Tommy had nothing to attack with. He thought of head-butting the collier, but with Joe's head supported by the ground, it would probably do Tommy more damage than his opponent.

Joe was a strong lad and began to wriggle free, so Tommy had to act fast and decided to sink his teeth into his adversary's side, just below his ribs. Like a bull terrier, he did not let go and blood began to flow copiously. Joe tried to free his
hammer but a fellow collier, outraged that a colleague had brought a weapon to a fist fight, stood on its shaft and pinned it to the ground.

Joe bellowed in pain; Tommy bit harder until the agony was too much to bear, forcing a cry of ‘
Enough!
' from his stricken foe. Tommy relaxed the grip of his teeth and spat out the blood that had filled his mouth. Joe, his shirt and jacket crimson with blood, was helped up by his fellow colliers.

Although Joe had surrendered, he felt humiliated. For him the fight was not over. He pushed his helpers away and wrested free his hammer. By then, Tommy had turned his back and Joe lunged at him, his weapon held high. There were gasps and cries and looks of horror, alerting Tommy to the danger. He turned in an instant and used his good left arm to parry the blow that might well have killed him. A swift but powerful kick to the groin made Joe double up in pain, which gave Tommy the chance to deliver a rabbit punch to the back of his opponent's neck, rendering him immobile until he collapsed to the ground.

Once more, Joe's colleagues took him away, this time more roughly, indignant about their fellow collier's behaviour. As they did so, a craggy old veteran of the pit approached Tommy and shook his hand.

‘Yon Joe's a wrong 'un. But tha's
fettled
'im reet enough; mind you, it's a reet good job tha's got thy own teeth!'

For weeks afterwards, the story of ‘Tommy Broxup's 'ammer and teeth
feight
' was repeated across the town to the great amusement of all who heard it. Unfortunately, Tommy's collarbone had been broken by the hammer blow and he was unable to work for five weeks. His employers, knowing full well that he had injured himself in a fight, held no sympathy for him. They kept his job open, but he got no sick pay and his union could only offer him a third of his weekly earnings, a paltry 4 shillings a week.

However, every Friday evening, there was a knock on
Tommy's door, 54 Hart Street, the last terraced house on the long row of identical homes all owned by Daneshouse Mill, his employers. It sat directly beneath the looming bank of the canal in one of the town's poorest districts.

For each of the five weeks that Tommy could not work, the source of the knock was a little lad, no more than twelve, who would hand Tommy a crumpled manila envelope, saying, ‘From t'lads at pit.' It contained between 8 and 10 shillings in both copper and silver. It was the proceeds of a regular collection taken at the pithead of Joe Smalley's Bee Hole Colliery, a small pit just behind Burnley's football ground at Turf Moor and only a few hundred yards from the famous ‘'ammer and teeth feight'.

After the final delivery, Tommy went to the pit to thank the colliers. As is their way, they were forthright with their responses.

‘No need to thank us, lad. We made Big Joe put in a bob a week. He won't be feightin' again fer a bit.'

Despite its prominence, Burnley's canal is not the defining feature of the town. That honour goes to the forest of mill chimneys that stretches as far as the eye can see. When they can see them through the heavy smoke that belches out, the local children count the stacks. They say there are ‘six dozen when it's reet murky' and ‘eight dozen if tha can
sken
Pendle Hill'.

The acrid smoke that the chimneys vomit into the air sits over the town like a heavy shroud and masks the sun on all but the freshest days. In winter, when every household is burning ‘
best slack
' in their grates to add to the puke of the mills, the air is so thick with soot it stings the eyes and makes it impossible to keep clothes clean, or even breathe without wheezing.

Paradoxically, Burnley, for all its ills and sins, sits in a hollow in the high undulating moors of the Pennines, a vast landscape of austere beauty. Tarnished only by the black infernos of the local cotton towns, Colne, Nelson, Burnley
and Accrington, the moors offer welcome relief to the gloom and drudgery of daily life.

Almost everything in the area is built from Pennines' millstone grit, an attractive, soft yellow sandstone akin to the renowned limestones of the Cotswolds and Somerset in southern England. However, in the rural south, stone retains its golden hue for generations. In Burnley, gleaming new stone is black with grime within ten years.

The old adage, ‘Where there's muck there's brass,' is of little comfort to the ordinary folk of Burnley, to whom ‘brass' is never plentiful. They live huddled together in their endless rows of terraced houses that make linear patterns on the steep slopes descending towards the town centre. Most of the town's housing and many of its public buildings have been built within the last fifty years of rapid growth. They sit cheek by jowl with older, haphazard housing stock close to the town centre, the squalid homes of the old and the poor.

Burnley has all the seedy characteristics of a frontier town, its population exploding from 4,000 in 1800 to over 110,000 in 1910, often mixing the sons and daughters of impoverished Pennine hill farmers with even more destitute Irish migrants. Diphtheria, scarlet fever, polio, bronchitis and pneumonia are commonplace, as is the extreme bow-legged gait of childhood rickets, what the locals call ‘bandy-legs'.

There are a few large and splendid Victorian homes for the mill owners on the fringes of the borough and a scattering of not quite so grand Edwardian houses for the middle classes who serve them. But the vast majority of people live in identical two-up-two-down boxes, many of them back-to-back hovels, while a few have to endure the ravages of cellar dwellings, where large families live in almost medieval filth beneath street level.

‘Long drop' and ‘tipple' lavatories, emptied every week by the soil men with their horse-drawn carts, are the only
sanitation, and the stench is usually overpowering in the poorest districts, especially in the summer. Flat caps, old Lancashire shawls and weavers' clogs are standard dress, and most people only possess the clothes they stand up in.

However, even though poverty is endemic for many, hard graft, long shifts and overtime bring in enough money to keep the market stalls busy and the pubs full.

Keighley Green was once an open, low-lying meadow between the old market town of antiquity and the new nineteenth-century boom town. But it is now one of those rough-house areas where the police walk their beats in squads of four with a horse-drawn Black Maria nearby to sweep up any miscreants. It is also home to the new police station and town lock-up, deliberately situated in the rowdiest part of the borough.

As a typical Saturday night in Burnley unfolds – this one warmer and more humid than most – Tommy Broxup continues to keep his friends amused. But his focus suddenly shifts to a face at the club bar he has not seen before.

‘Who's yon big bugger?'

Vinny has no idea, but his best pal from schooldays, Nathaniel ‘Twaites' Haythornthwaite, has. A short sturdy lad with a mop of white-blond hair, who hails from the Pendle village of Sabden five miles north of Burnley, he recognizes the newcomer immediately.

‘By 'eck, that's “Mad Mick” Kenny. He's called “Cock o' Colne”, not just because he's an 'ard case, but because o' t'number of women he's shagged. He's a collier; 'is dad were a Paddy.'

‘A Paddy collier from Colne. What's he doin' in 'ere?'

Vincent sniffs the prospect of a rumpus.

‘I'll go an' ask 'im.'

As he passes the steward, John-Tommy leans across the bar.

‘Did tha
laik
at cricket today, lad?'

‘I
did, John-Tommy, we laiked at Ramsbottom.'

‘And?'

‘Forty-eight not out, and three fer twenty-one.'

‘Good lad.' John-Tommy nods appreciatively and smiles broadly. ‘But tha needs to be suppin' less ale if tha' wants to be a top laiker.'

Vinny walks on, only half listening to the advice. John-Tommy's look turns rueful, remembering that it was too many pints of Massey's that brought an early end to his own cricketing career.

Despite the crowd of bodies around the bar, Vinny is soon back with the other lads, looking chastened.

Twaites grins at him.

‘What did t'big bugger say?'

‘He told me to fuck off and mind me own business.'

‘So what did tha say?'

‘Well, he's an even bigger bugger up close than 'e looks at a distance, so I did as I was told, an' fucked off!'

They all laugh out loud, except Tommy, who is already pushing through the throng to confront the visitor. He has had a few pints and feels like warming his knuckles and burnishing his clog irons. Almost as tall as Mad Mick, he puts his face far closer to him than is necessary.

‘This is a members' club, lad.'

The big lad smiles rather than take the offence that is intended.

‘Course it is, wouldn't be a club if it didn't 'ave members.'

‘But tha's not one of 'em.'

Again, no offence is taken; the smile broadens.

‘Neither are 'alf t'lads in 'ere.' He rests a gentle hand on Tommy's shoulder. ‘Can a non-member buy a member an' his pals a pint?'

Tommy is perplexed. He intended to provoke a fight, but gets a grin and a pint instead. The unexpected response draws Tommy's venom.

‘Aye,
we'll 'ave a pint wi' thee. But only one, then it's outside fer a set-to.'

Three pints later, the two men are sharing stories, all talk of fighting forgotten. Then Tommy remembers that his new pal is a stranger to the club.

‘So, Mick lad, why 'as tha come down to Burnley toneet?'

‘To see thee.'

‘Me, what fer?'

‘Two reasons. First, I 'eard about thy set-to wi' Joe Smalley and I wanted to meet t'lad wi' teeth like a bulldog. Second, my missus, Cath, is a bit of a firebrand. She supports them suffragettes and 'as just joined t'socialists.'

‘Bloody 'ell; votes fer women! My Mary's t'same. I can't vote
mesen
; I don't know any lad who can. Mary says we should all 'ave t'vote.'

‘I know, Cath's 'eard that your Mary speaks 'er mind at t'mill. That's why I'm 'ere; Cath wants Mary to join t'socialists. But I wanted to speak wi' thee first.'

‘That's reet gentlemanly of thee. I'll talk to Mary. But she knows 'er own mind and will suit 'erself.'

‘Another ale, Tommy?'

‘Aye, ta. 'Ow yer gettin' 'ome to Colne?'

‘A've missed last tram; I'll 'ave to walk.'

‘No, yer won't; it's seven mile to Colne. Tha can sleep in our front room and meet Mary in
t'morn
.'

‘Good o' thee to let a collier through thy front door.'

‘That's
alreet
. No pissin' in t'fire back, though. I know what you lads do fer a piss down t'pit.'

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.'

‘Thank
you, sir.'

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.'