Andrew Wareham - The Balloonatics - A Tale of the Great War

It was obviously important, a better use of Geoffrey’s time and talents than in standing in a trench as a junior officer.

“I suspect you are contributing more than me to the war effort, brother. Without you to ensure they are made, I would have no blimps to fly in.”

His father was sure that was true.

“Even so, there are any number of unpleasant people, ladies mostly, who make themselves obnoxious to any young man they see out of uniform, Peter. Wiser that you should not wear civilian dress into Town tomorrow.”

“Heard of them, Father. The White Feather Brigade, is it not?”

“Just that. There are a couple to be found in town here. Old bats who have nothing better to do with their days than harass young men in the street. They were to be found hanging around the station for a time. I had a word with the local inspector of police and he had them arrested, taken up for soliciting – greatly to their indignation!”

The girls did not understand; the others roared with laughter.

The dinner party was tedious – Peter did not know the people and understood little of the conversation about banking. Both couples had daughters, girls of about his sisters’ age, neither outstandingly handsome or with anything in particular to say. The pair displayed considerable interest in Geoffrey, little in a younger son who was a mere lieutenant.

“What ship are you, Lieutenant Naseby?”

“None as such, Miss Graves. I am posted to HMS Shoreham, a RNAS field. I fly Sea Scouts there.”

“Fly?”

“Yes, Miss Graves. Anti-submarine patrols along the Channel, protecting the ships going to France.”

It did not sound very exciting – deliberately so – and flying was so new as probably to be unworthy of the attention of the upper classes. Miss Graves was delicately careful to do nothing that might not be proper for a well-born lady. She had no more to say to Peter.

The meal was good, better than wardroom cooking, and Peter enjoyed his food. He drank moderately and remained totally sober, which was more than either banker achieved, both a little noisy as they went out to their cars and their chauffeurs.

“What did you think of Miss Graves, old chap?”

Geoffrey was also sober. Peter could not imagine him ever to have been anything else.

Peter was warned by his brother’s portentous tones, chose to be tactful.

“Quite a pretty girl, in her way and sensible in all she said, Geoffrey.”

“So I think, Peter. I am considering her as my wife. Father agrees that she is suitable. Graves himself is big in merchant banking and the two houses are becoming closer under wartime conditions, you know.”

An alliance of financial interests as well as a romance. More than a romance, perhaps.

“I think she would do well in the position. Geoffrey. She would make an excellent banker’s wife, especially in the new world that is being created by the war.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, old chap. Everything will return to normal afterwards, you know. One more big Push on the Western Front and all will be over. Just as soon as Kitchener’s New Army gets out there next summer, so they tell me. Then it will all be the same again, as it should be.”

His father overheard and agreed.

“Just an interlude, you know, Peter. We can all get back to business after this.”

“I am not convinced of that, Father. Too many are dying and too much is changing. Women going out to work, you know. The buses that passed us this morning, more of them had women conductors than not. There were women shop assistants in Harrods. I am told that there are women ambulance drivers in France, barely behind the Lines. I doubt that those girls will simply be content to go back to their kitchens, you know.”

That was all very disturbing, the bankers agreed, and possibly true. It was almost impossible to get domestic servants, despite offering doubled wages.

“Add to that, Father, so many more cars and lorries on the roads. People will not go back to the horse, you know.”

That also seemed rather probable.

“The streets smell of petrol, you know, Peter. We must be using tens of thousands of gallons of the stuff!”

“All of it brought in from overseas, is it not, Father?”

“Mesopotamia and Transjordan and some from Arabia itself and a large amount from the West Indies and Central America. There are wells in the United States, also.”

“Be a good idea to grab hold of some of those for after the war, would it not, Father?”

“Sensible indeed, Peter… More than a good idea, my son!”

Geoffrey was not so sure that they should become involved – it smacked too much of the new and untried for his taste.

“Better to let the Americans get their toes wet first, sir. Let them prove it, or fail, and then we can come into a safe market.”

“No. There is money in petrol, Geoffrey. Millions. We must be in the forefront for once. On Monday I shall talk to the proper people. Anglo-Dutch Shell and British Petroleum, I think. They can lead the way for a proper British influence in oil. More than money, Geoffrey. Oil will be politics if the motor car grows as big as I suspect. And politics means a seat for the Nasebys in the House of Lords within a few years. Time for the family to be properly recognised, I believe!”

Geoffrey was not at all sure they should take the risks of being first in any field; he rather fancied being second Baron Naseby.

“I say, sir, if that is to be so, do you think I should hold back on speaking to Miss Graves? Might be able to do a bit better in the market if we are to rise in the world. Only twenty-six, after all – I can wait another ten years before I really need to be married.”

“She’s dull, anyway, Geoffrey. I would say nothing against her while I thought you were set on her. She ain’t the brightest of sparks, however.”

They wrote Miss Graves off as a possible bride.

“What of you, Peter? Nothing in the air for you yet?”

Geoffrey considered that and thought he had said something rather witty, even if by accident.

“In the air, what?”

They smiled.

“Must not marry as a lieutenant. Their Lordships do not permit it. Can take a wife as a lieutenant commander. Better to wait for three full rings on my sleeve.”

They agreed it was wiser.

“What of the girls, Father? Anything in sight there?”

“Jennifer had a follower for a time last year – went as a lieutenant in the Kents. He died two months ago, in the trenches. Upset her a bit, but she’s getting over it. Minnie – Ermintrude, I should say – is still young though she has talked a little with young Edwards – son to the squire down the road a couple of miles. He is in the RFC, gone across to France. Pleasant lad and his father owns a goodly slice of land and much of the town here – must have a good income in rents to make up for the farms losing money.”

The RFC had a high casualty rate, possibly losing more young officers than the battalions in the trenches.

“Dangerous way of making a living, the boy’s chosen, Father.”

“I know, Peter. What of yours?”

They poured a final glass of brandy while Peter chose his words.

“Safer than the RFC, sir. In terms of losing men in the air, that is. Must say, however, that flying along in close proximity to seventy thousand cubic feet of hydrogen is not without its risks. A high wind can take control of the gasbag – we only have a small and not especially powerful engine. It is a risky business, in its way. Useful, however. If we can kill submarines, then we will do a lot of good. The Channel crossing must be kept safe – there’s probably ten thousand men going across every day, there and back. We cannot lose them.”