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

“As well to be there as anywhere else, Mama. It seems I have nothing else to do at the moment.”

She ignored his depressed tone – no doubt it was a mere, temporary aberration.

“Nothing at all for these few days. Your father will wish to discuss possibilities with you as soon as you are ambulant. You will be on crutches for some considerable time, it seems, which will be an irritation to you. You might need a walking stick for the rest of your life – a minor inconvenience.”

His mother was deliberately casual, all understated, her emotions buried under her training. She made it clear that she did not expect drama from her son – he must accept the minor vicissitudes of life.

“Geoffrey is deeply upset that he cannot possibly find the time to come down here. Eight hours by train from London, a day spent here, another night of travelling to get back. He knows he must not leave his office for so long and yet is torn between two duties. He ordered me to send his best wishes. I have not bothered so far. You know your brother and need no words second hand from me.”

Peter managed a smile.

“None at all, Mama. I have the greatest affection for him, and know he has the same for me, even though neither of us has ever understood the other. He is the best of brothers.”

She showed pleased, always worried that her two boys, so unalike, might fall out.

“We must travel this afternoon, Peter. Josephine and I are to take the night sleeper to Paddington Station. We must both return home. You are to go by motor ambulance, I believe – the sort of thing that your sister is driving, which I still do not approve of! You may be in Ewell before me as I must accompany Josephine to Shoreham, having promised her grandmother that I should not have her travel about the country alone. With your approval, we may discuss matters while I am there.”

Peter wondered exactly what those matters might be, knew better than to ask or conceivably raise an objection. If his mother had wished to explain, she would have done so. His ‘approval’ was no more than a courtesy form on her part. He assumed she would be setting a date for the wedding, having decided that Josephine would do for her son. He agreed with her assessment – coming close to death had served to clarify his mind on a number of issues, the most pressing being that he definitely had fallen in love with Josephine. It was, perhaps, a good thing that he was to leave the Navy – sailors were officially expected to love the sea and that alone.

The journey by motor ambulance was tedious, long and boring, a nurse accompanying him who had no conversation and was an indefatigable knitter. He remained comfortable, sleeping most of the way, albeit somewhat embarrassed by the use of a bottle when he woke up uncomfortable.

The hospital at Ewell was an old manor house, donated by its owner and rapidly crumbling under the onslaught of the military; ancient brickwork had little to say to army boots. Peter had a single downstairs room, apparently because he was to stand on crutches and walk a little before he might leave.

“Well, Peter? You at least will survive this bloody war!”

“Hello, Jennifer. Are you to be my nurse?”

“No, not right that I should look after a brother. Susan has responsibility for you.” She nodded to an older nurse who had come in with her. “How is the pain?”

“Bearable. It is far less than it was last week. It is an ache now, not a burning, stabbing anguish as it was for the day after they stopped the morphine injections. I was close to begging them for an injection. I am glad I did not.”

“Dangerous stuff, morphine. I am glad you had little of it. We know so little of the drug and many doctors are inclined to dispense it almost carelessly, their concern only that it ends pain. When I qualify, I might hope to take part in research upon opioids and all of their ramifications.”

“You will definitely study medicine after the war?”

“I have started already. There is a course available for educated nurses who wish to enter into medicine. Part time, but if the war lasts another three years, I shall have completed my first two years of study, may enter a medical school in the third year.”

“I must wish you joy of your endeavours, Jennifer. You know what you are to do with your life.”

“While you do not now. I do not doubt that father will assist. I must say I do not see you as a banker. The name on your door says Captain Peter Naseby. An achievement at age twenty-five, possibly currently unmatched, I am told. I do not doubt you can do as well in another field. Indeed”, she smiled suddenly, “I understand from Mama you are to marry soon, so you must find a profitable occupation.”

“I must. As you say, I shall have to. I much wish to be wed, so I have no choice. Not banking, I am not to tread on Geoffrey’s toes, and obviously the law demands years of study. The Church is not an ambition. The professions are not available to me so I must become a Captain of Industry. I wonder what I am to do?”

His father visited that evening, Geoffrey at his side and almost in tears when he saw his brother sat proudly in a comfortable armchair by his bed, his left leg ending in a bandage.

“I am out of bed, do you see. Crutches tomorrow. Release from durance vile on Friday, if only I can manage to walk forty paces.”

“Good. You will prefer walking to a wheelchair, I do not doubt, Peter.”

“Very much so, Father.”

“Good. You have not lost the fighting spirit even though the Navy is no longer for you, my son. If you wish, I can find an additional thousand a year to add to your existing allowance. With your pension, you may retire to the life of a country gentleman, presumably on your wife’s farm.”

“Kind offer, sir. I hope you will not be offended that I refuse it.”

“Anything but, Peter! What do you know about oil?”

“Not much, Father. I presume you mean the stuff as it comes out of the ground, black and smelly and needing to be refined by some process I do not understand? I saw a newsreel at the cinema in Portsmouth which pictured an American oil well. The oil was loaded into tank wagons on the railway to go off to a refinery.”

“Exactly! We are to build a modern refinery from scratch in Britain. An expanse of mud by the side of an estuary in South Wales just now. The oil will be brought by ship from the West Indies or Arabia and Mesopotamia. Two years and it is to be the newest and most efficient in the world, producing the petroleum we shall need in increasing quantities. I know nothing of the technicalities, either. We need an overseer, one might say, to bring all together, to be the master of ceremonies in the construction process. You have no experience in such a function. Neither has anybody else in this country. Do you want it?”

Peter was instantly enthused – so much to do and he knew he could bring engineers and people together to do it.

“Very much so, Father! What a wonderful job! King of all I survey – and not George III either!”

“It is yours, my son. I do not know whether I have given you a blessing or a curse, by the way; it is a massive job. The first meeting relating to the construction takes place on Wednesday next week in my offices. Will you be there?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. We shall discuss your appointment and title and salary then. I cannot see that we shall be talking less than six thousand pounds a year, with expenses in addition. Can you drive?”

“Damned if I know, Father. A hand throttle rather than an accelerator pedal… I shall have to talk to a motor salesman. Let us assume that I shall be able to, sir! I might need a chauffeur for a few weeks, not for long.”

Friday morning saw Peter proudly crutching from his room down the long hall to the front door and back again, to the applause of the staff. They produced a uniform and assisted him to put it on, full post captain’s parade dress, he noticed. Just before eleven o’clock they made a performance of taking him down to the receiving room by the front doors. He wondered why – there was obviously a reason.