The brigandshaw chronicl.., p.105
The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 105
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“I told her the same, Tinus,” said Andre, as the old rowing boat glided into shore. “This all brings back such good memories. The Thames on a summer night when it isn’t raining has to be the most beautiful place on earth.”
“I’ll still take the Zambezi with the game coming down to the water to drink at dusk, the small ones keeping a good look out for the lions. England is pretty. Africa is majestic. Vast. So much of it. The bush goes on forever. It’s a different feeling alone in the bush, part with the animals, just one of them, as much afraid of the lions as the rest of them. One day, Greg, if you give up being a film star you should come out and visit us in Rhodesia.”
“Why do I have to wait? I’m finding a whole new world right here and it’s wonderful. My father’s never been out of Illinois. Thank you, Genevieve. This is the best day of my life.”
“She looks so beautiful,” whispered Tinus, as the late sun, caught in under the picture hat, set off Genevieve’s eyes, making her cheeks glow with the colour of a rosebud.
All three men stopped rowing the boat towards the weeping willows to look at her, making Genevieve spread her hands and open fingers over her face.
“Stop staring. You make me think of Gerry Hollingsworth, the one-time Louis Casimir who always stared at me and never said a word.”
“Why did he change his name?”
“He’s a Jew, Greg. Trying to protect his family. Why he came over to America. It’s not good being a Jew at the moment in Europe. Why do people hate like that? What’s the point? He may stare at me but so are you, even if the stare is a little different. He’s the same. Having to run away must be terrible. His grandfather came to England from Hungary to get away. Why don’t people like the Jews? I don’t understand. Someone said it’s because they crucified Jesus which was wrong, surely. I thought it was the Romans. Two thousand years. How long can you go on hating someone? People who do that must be sick. Poor Mr Hollingsworth. Now you know why he changed his name, so no one in the future will persecute his family for being Jews. Poor man says he can’t even go to shul anymore… Who put two bottles of wine in the hamper?”
“I did,” said Gregory. “I had them stashed in the rental.”
“Good thinking,” said Andre. “Who’s going to jump out first? In England at this time of the year it doesn’t get dark until ten. The twilight. Wine in the twilight, that some like to call the gloaming. Gloaming sounds better. Someone told me it’s very old English. Before Chaucer.”
“Let’s stay out until it’s very dark,” said Gregory. “There’s always reflected light on a river to row by. Just remember where I parked the car. What’s the weather going to be like tomorrow for flying, Andre?”
“Perfect.”
“It’s just so good to be alive,” said Gregory L’Amour as he jumped off the boat, holding it steady for the rest of them to come ashore without getting their feet wet.
When Bruno Kannberg put down the phone and told his wife, her whole face lit up.
“Can I come with you, darling? Gregory L’Amour! Could you get a photograph with me and Gregory L’Amour together?”
“Harry Brigandshaw’s nephew will be there. You remember, we met him at that restaurant in Greek Street where they break all the plates. It’s Sunday tomorrow so you don’t have to work. You may have to stay in the car if the RAF don’t allow you onto a bomber station without a press card.”
“I’ll smile at them. I’m your wife. Don’t they allow journalists’ wives? Genevieve will talk them into it, darling. I can’t wait. Are you sure Arthur Bumley will lend you his car? Film stars are so exciting. It was so clever of you writing Genevieve’s memoirs. Do you think we are going to get some more money from the book? I can ask Genevieve. There should be more by now. Maybe you can offer to write a book about Gregory L’Amour and we can go to America if he’s sailing back next week. On the same boat, wouldn’t that be lovely? Just as well I haven’t fallen pregnant.”
“What about your job with the solicitors?”
“Oh, they won’t mind. Shorthand typists are ten a penny.”
“And the boat fare?”
“He’d pay for that if he wants a book. Lucky you had your name on the back cover. They should know who you are in America. I just can’t wait. Do we know which boat they are sailing on? I’ll bet it’s a big one. First class. We’ll travel to America first class.”
“The flat, Gillian?”
“Pay a few months’ rent in advance. Max Pearl will publish a book on Gregory L’Amour, I’m sure. Jump at it. We can ask him to cable us an advance against the royalty. This time you can keep the whole ten per cent royalty. Gregory L’Amour won’t want any. He’s rich enough as it is.”
“The army will have to forget me tomorrow.”
“Of course they will. Like shorthand typists, second lieutenants in the Territorial Army are ten a penny. You won’t have to play your war games tomorrow.”
“We’re not playing games, Gillian. We fire live ammunition I’ll have you know.”
“But you never kill anyone, silly. We won’t need the money they pay you as a part-time soldier anymore.”
“I don’t think you get out of the army that easily. I mentioned the exercise tomorrow to Harry Brigandshaw. Said the air force would put in a word. I’m to phone in sick and the TA will understand.”
“It’s just a game, Bruno. What am I going to wear? You are so clever, Bruno, knowing all these famous people. I’ve always wanted to mix with the rich and famous. Makes me feel special, not just some dull typist married to a journalist.”
“Is it as bad as all that?”
“Not anymore. If you are sweet to me like this for the rest of the day and promise to take me with you, we can have a little bit of fun tonight. First phone Mr Bumley for the car. Where is the place we’re going?”
“Not far from Slough.”
“It’s going to be a lovely day, I just feel it… Gregory L’Amour, whoever would have thought it? Gillian West with Gregory L’Amour.”
“You’re Gillian Kannberg now.”
“I know, darling. But I still think of myself as Gillian West. Do I look pretty, Bruno?”
“Good enough to eat.”
“Not for you, silly. I was thinking of Gregory L’Amour tomorrow.”
First Bruno telephoned the adjutant of his unit and told him the truth. Then he phoned Arthur Bumley to borrow the car. To be absolutely certain he was going to get sex that night, something his wife had kept from him for a week, he phoned the Greek restaurant where they had met Tinus Oosthuizen and made a reservation for two. Half toying with the idea of suggesting sex to his wife straight away in her excitement, he decided to play the game safe. The immediate approach would have made it obvious he knew that giving him sex when it suited her was the way his wife made him do what he was told.
Smiling to himself in anticipation, Bruno was a happy man. Waiting for anything good was worthwhile. He even thought the waiting made the sex, when it happened, even better. There was one thing for certain: he was never going to get bored having sex with his wife.
“We’re going out to dinner,” he called into the bedroom where Gillian was looking through her clothes for something to wear on the morrow.
“How lovely, darling. If the dress shops were open on a Saturday evening we could go shopping on the way to the restaurant.”
Thanking his lucky stars for the government’s fixed shopping hours, Bruno began mulling the idea of writing a book on Gregory L’Amour, liking the idea the more he looked at it in his mind. On the spur of the moment he decided to book a call to Max Pearl in America. Luckily, Bruno had his publisher’s home number.
Better to have his publisher behind him before he asked L’Amour. With a good advance from his publisher, Bruno hoped he would once again be able to keep up with his wife’s spendthrift ways.
“The more money, the more sex,” he whispered to himself as he went about making his plans, more horny than he could remember ever being before.
2
Taking his lead from Harry Brigandshaw, and to prevent confusion at the guard room and the wooden sentry box at the entrance to Royal Air Force Uxbridge, Group Captain Lowcock, the station commander of the three bomber squadrons, declared the Sunday afternoon an open day to the public; anything the RAF did not wish the press to see was hidden away in locked hangars, including the three new twin-engine Blenheims that were capable of flying to Berlin and back again.
Geoffrey Lowcock knew as well as Harry Brigandshaw that the RAF’s Achilles heel in the event of a war, a war that neither of them believed could be avoided, was a lack of skilled pilots. A sea rescue plan had been put together by Coastal Command to ‘fish’ pilots from the ‘drink’ who bailed out of damaged aircraft into the English Channel and get them back to their squadrons within hours of being pulled out of the sea. Destroyed aircraft were replaceable. Skilled pilots were not.
“It’s just as important to train pilots now, Geoffrey, as it is to build advanced aircraft the enemy knows nothing about. Make it an open day. Get a brass band. Fly anti-aircraft balloons; give the children miniature Union Jacks. Get the wives to lay on some grub. He’s as big a Hollywood star as we’ll ever get.”
The brass band and the miniature Union Jacks suggested by Harry Brigandshaw had been a problem; the rest had fallen quickly into place. By three o’clock on the Sunday afternoon RAF Uxbridge was ready for visitors, the SPs on duty at the entrance ready to wave in the people without any questions.
William Smythe arrived with Betty Townsend as a cushion to Genevieve and to stop himself feeling so miserable at the thought of seeing Genevieve with Tinus Oosthuizen and Gregory L’Amour. They were the first of the press to arrive, so it seemed.
“What’s going on, Will? These chaps are far too friendly. Thought they’d frisk us at the least,” said Horatio.
“Open day, sir,” answered a tall man in a blue uniform with a red band round his blue peaked hat. Horatio Wakefield was sat in the back of William’s car next to his cameraman, Gordon Stark. Janet had declined the invitation to join them, preferring to spend Sunday with the children.
“Has he arrived?” asked William.
“You are the first, sir. Please call at the guard room and someone will show you round. I’ve never met an American before. She’s the one though.” The SP was smiling with anticipation written all over his face, annoying the hell out of William.
“Talkative bugger,” said William as he drove onto the station. “Most unlike any policeman I have known. Do you remember those buggers in Berlin, Horatio? They never said a word or gave the glimmer of a smile. I always thought they were enjoying themselves frightening the crap out of me. Sorry, Betty. The word just came out. What a lovely day. Isn’t Harry Brigandshaw meant to be here? There’s another car coming in behind us. Do you know what L’Amour looks like?”
“He’ll be with Genevieve,” said Horatio.
“There’s another car behind the other car,” said William, looking through the rear-view mirror. “This is going to be a circus. Get your camera ready, Gordon. I say, the place does look smart. All the stones on the side of the road are painted white. Some poor sod doing jankers, I think they call it.”
“What’s that?” asked Betty, craning her neck to see who was in the car behind.
“When you do something wrong they give you nasty jobs,” said William.
“The man driving behind us is in uniform,” said Betty. “The girl I recognise. That’s Fleur Brooks from the Mayfair sitting next to the driver. Plays the violin. I can’t quite see the girl behind but I think she’s also in the band. There’s an older man next to her who looks bored. The other car is being waved on. Yes, it’s them all right. He’s better looking in the flesh than he was at the pictures. Tingle, tingle. What wouldn’t I do to get my hands on him.”
“Is there a girl in the car?” asked William, keeping his eye on the road and avoiding his mirror.
“A girl and two boys. Where does she find them? The other two are quite dishy. One of the boys is waving at us.”
“Tinus Oosthuizen,” said Horatio. “Harry Brigandshaw’s nephew. Someone’s coming into land in a Tiger Moth. I’ll take a bet that’s Harry Brigandshaw. Drove to Redhill aerodrome and flew up with his friend John Woodall who teaches people how to fly. How did he get it all together so quickly? I suppose when you’ve run a shipping line this is a piece of cake. Nothing like experience.”
“The girl has just blown you a kiss, William.”
“You mean Genevieve,” said William, keeping his head straight.
“Why don’t you look at her? Oh dear, so it’s like that? Real competition.”
“Not competition, Betty.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. A bloody film star blowing kisses at my boyfriend and that isn’t competition,” she said flatly.
“You’re my secretary.”
“Give me time, lover-boy.”
“The last time I was at a military aerodrome was in Warsaw,” said William to change the subject. “Couple of years ago. Even remember the lad’s name who showed me around. Studying Law and flying part-time for the Polish air force. Count Janusz Kowalski. Harry told me to tell him to come to England if Germany overruns Poland. Spoke good English. Wonder what happened to him? You remember, Horatio? Fritz Wendel, God bless his soul, sent me to one of their air shows. Pilots were good but the planes antique in comparison to what we and the Germans have to fly. Must have finished his law degree by now. Father was a judge or something. Big estate in the country. Old aristocracy. Do you know the Polish army are still riding horses? Genuine cavalry. The Germans will make mincemeat out of them despite our treaty to defend the Poles. I mean how long would it take us to get an army to Poland? One of those treaties that isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, if you ask me. Just show to frighten Hitler, which it won’t. I’m not sure we’ve got anything that could fly nonstop to Warsaw and back, so the RAF won’t be any help to the poor bloody Poles.”
“Why don’t you ask them?” said Horatio. “Now’s the time. Not that they’d tell you. If war breaks out, do foreign correspondents become war correspondents?”
“Depends what they do. Probably. What happened to that German Janet had as a patient? Did she cure his stutter?” asked William.
“Funnily enough she did. I liked him. Not all Germans are bad.”
“He’s a member of the Nazi Party, for God’s sake,” said William, parking the car next to what he took to be the guard room. Genevieve’s car was right behind them.
“Knew a chap who was a member of Mosley’s party,” said Horatio, ignoring William’s reference to Henning von Lieberman. “Now there’s a dangerous bastard.”
“Say that again. If war breaks out they say they’re going to lock him up for the duration. What people do in pursuit of power!”
“Someone was saying in the office Gandhi is one day going to be prime minister of India when he’s kicked out the British Raj.”
“Never. The Muslims won’t let him. Can you imagine the Hindus and Muslims living side by side without us British keeping the peace? America wants us out so they can move into the Indian market... You were right, Horatio. That was Harry Brigandshaw landing the Tiger Moth. Here he comes. You’d never think looking at him he nearly died in hospital. Must be seven years ago. Time flies. The group captain with him must be the CO. Come on. This is where we all do some work. Glen Hamilton said on the transatlantic phone this morning he’ll sell anything I can get on L’Amour wanting to be a flyer. His last film was a howling success in the States, apparently. Film stars sell, Horatio. Come on. Betty, be a dear and keep lots of notes. Gordon, start flashing your flashbulb. Your editor, Mr Glass, will sell me the photographs but only for the American market... What’s that bloody great balloon doing up there in the sky?”
“William’s ignoring me,” said Genevieve, waving back at Horatio Wakefield as he walked across to the guard room. “Why are we stopping? Look, it’s Uncle Harry with an important-looking man with a peaked hat and two rows of ribbons on his chest.”
“What have you done to William Smythe?” said Tinus innocently, turning to Gregory L’Amour. “He’s a freelance journalist with big American connections. Uncle Harry said something about the press and RAF recruitment for pilots. Looks like more than just the four of us. Coming towards us, Gregory, is my Uncle Harry and John Woodall, who certified my competence to fly an aircraft, back in 1933 it must have been. Must be the CO with them. Quite a reception, Greg. What’s the Honourable Barnaby St Clair doing here? Must be Uncle Harry again. Andre, it’s Fleur and Celia and a chap in RAF uniform who looks like he knows what’s going on. You’ll get a flip by the look of it, Greg. There are more cars coming in. About half a dozen and everyone in civvies.”
“Do you mind if I take a photograph, Mr L’Amour?”
“Aren’t you Gordon Stark, Horatio’s photographer?”
“Afternoon, Tinus. The RAF have made today an open day at Uxbridge. Bit of public relations after Chamberlain’s talks with Hitler.”
“Has it anything to do with Mr L’Amour and Genevieve?”
“Everything.”
“Uncle Harry! How are you? Mr Woodall. How nice to see you again.”
“My nephew, Geoffrey. Not a bad pilot. Group Captain Lowcock, Tinus. Mr L’Amour,” said Harry putting out his hand. “Harry Brigandshaw. Welcome to the RAF. Genevieve! Where’s my kiss? How’s your grandmother and father?... Come over here, Barnaby, and get yourself introduced. Look at all those cars.”
“What’s the balloon for?” asked Betty, looking at the group captain.
