The brigandshaw chronicl.., p.130
The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 130
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“He’s right. Bruno is right. If Germany wins the Battle of Britain we’ll all be living in a fascist world.”
“Fascism. Communism. Capitalism. They’re all the same, a way to make money for the few and keep the masses under control when built-in religion doesn’t work anymore. The Catholics have the answer. Put the fear of God into a child before he is seven and the man will behave himself. Now Darwin has come along and tried to prove we evolved from the slime so the power-hungry are trying something else. Religion was the best. Self-policing. God all around you all of the time. You can hide from the police but not from God. And make them all give ten per cent to the church for its trouble.”
“That’s really cynical, Samantha.”
“I hope so. Wouldn’t it be awful if it was the truth? That religion is one big confidence trick which you only get to prove when you’re dead and can’t argue with the church or get your money back.”
“Democracy is better than fascism.”
“Plato, I think it was, the philosophers all blend into one in my mind, said the next worse thing to tyranny was democracy. All those stupid people voting to get what they want for themselves. Democracy is just as easy to abuse. All you need is a sleazeball with a big, persuasive mouth. Sound familiar, Glen? That sermon on Sunday was bullshit.”
“It’s in America’s best interest to help England.”
“See, what I said. All you have to do is convince a gullible public and we’re off to war in our chariot. If the spoils are worth it and the price in blood and treasure minimal, everyone cheers. That’s democracy. No sane man volunteers to go to war. Do any of them know what they are fighting about? The governments, I mean. The man in the street never knows. War, an extension of diplomacy someone said. If he won’t give you what you want, give him a belt round the ear. We’re just fine in America as we are, leave them alone. When they’ve finished struggling with each other to find out who’s the big gorilla we’ll see what’s in our best interest. Don’t let Bruno Kannberg get you writing pieces telling everyone we should go to war.”
“And if Hitler invades America?”
“It’s a big pond.”
“Or the Japs?”
“What have the Japs got to do with it?”
“We’re stopping them getting oil in their fight against China. You corner a rat, it turns on you. What else can it do from a corner when its lifeblood is threatened?”
“Your imagination is running riot again, Glen Hamilton. Freya has the right idea. If Robert wants to run back to England and put his head in the noose, let him. She’s got the kids.”
“Robert’s English. Very old English. They have deep patriotism bred into them.”
“Still doesn’t mean America has to go to war. All we have in common is the language. The rest of America is a melting pot of every tribe on earth. Why it works. We don’t have clans. Factions. We all want one thing, the good life. Most of us have it. Everyone has the same opportunity. Let the Europeans scratch each other’s eyes out. They wanted the fight, let them have it. A second time. You’d think they’d done enough damage to each other the first time. Russia’s keeping out of it. So must we. Now there’s a problem for the future. Communism.”
“You just said they’re all the same.”
“Communism threatens the American dream of all having the chance to get rich.”
“Now you are yanking my chain.”
“Probably. No one ever solved the world’s problems for very long, certainly not at three in the morning. There’s always a new one. Go to sleep. I love talking to you, Glen, but a girl needs her beauty sleep. You think the kids are all right?”
“Of course they are. Goodnight. Thanks for listening. Sometimes I like to get it off my chest.”
“I know. We’ve been married a long time. We’re interested in each other’s problems. Not just our own. That’s why we work, you and I.”
2
Genevieve watched the Pacific roll into shore all morning, only one thought in her mind: Tinus was fighting for his life, the only hope in her future about to be destroyed. The letter from Uncle Harry was wet in the sand at her naked feet, the phone call in her mind, cut off in full flight, Uncle Harry sounding cheerful compared to her own mental misery.
“There’s no contact on a daily basis with Tangmere at the moment. Keep your chin up, Genevieve. He’s a good pilot.”
“Is he all right?”
“Nothing comes out. Security.”
“They’d tell you.”
“It’s a bit hectic at the moment. The RAF has its hands full. I’ll give him your love when I see him. They won’t let me fly in combat.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Silly, really. I test flew the Spitfire before it went into squadron service. Now they say I’m too old. Too old when they’ve ironed out the problems! I’ll try again if it gets any worse.”
“What do you mean ‘any worse’, Uncle Harry?”
“We’re losing pilots. The Germans more than us.”
“I’m going to be sick.
“Just keep your chin up.”
There was a click and the line had gone dead, leaving Genevieve the rest of the day to ponder on her own, rereading Uncle Harry’s old letter in reply to her own, looking for solace where none could be found. All day the blue sea had rolled in, not once penetrating her thoughts as the fear and misery ebbed and flowed through every portal of her mind.
“There you are, Genevieve. They’ve been looking for you all morning.”
“Leave me alone.”
“He’ll survive. I’m trying again to go over.”
“Then you’re as big a fool as Tinus. He was in Rhodesia. All he had to do was stay put.”
“Anyway, they won’t let me. I’ve joined an American ancillary squadron. We’ll be in the war soon, you’ll see.”
“Gregory! Do me a favour? Go away.”
“You can’t mope all day. Come and have some lunch. Get drunk. Do something other than worry. He’s a good pilot. The best pilots came through the last war.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Only what I heard from Harry Brigandshaw. He should know. Twenty-three kills.”
“And all dead. Germans or English what’s the difference? Uncle Harry said he’s going back into combat if it gets any worse. He’s over fifty. How bad has it got when old men have to fight?”
“At least have a drink. When it’s all over you’ll laugh at yourself for moping on the beach all morning.”
“When’s it going to be over, Greg? You know the papers are calling it the Battle of Britain. Britain fighting for survival. I want to go home.”
“What can you do?”
“Be nearer. Not knowing is horrible. I can make them smile.”
“Not with a face like that you won’t. Why don’t you go to New York to see off your uncle if you want to go to England? Could have caught the same boat. Why’s he taking a boat anyway?”
“Doesn’t like flying.”
“The Atlantic is swarming with U-boats.”
“Now you’re really helping. Uncle Robert goes all the way through the trenches and drowns at sea. All right then. Let’s you and I get drunk at the hotel. If anyone tries to talk to us, punch them in the face. Everybody wants a fight these days. He’s going to die, Greg.”
“No, he’s not. Most soldiers survive wars. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t fight wars. There are always survivors or where are the heroes? Don’t you remember anything about our films? The swelling music when the victor triumphantly returns from the wars to the love of his life?”
“That’s comforting. Do you realise what you just said?”
“Sort of. I’m trying to help.”
“I know you are. Why don’t you find yourself a girlfriend?”
“I don’t want one. You know that.”
When they arrived for the dinner party at Abercrombie Place, Bruno Kannberg gave his first genuine smile in the presence of his wife since getting into bed next to her drunk. Vida, literally, looked down her nose at Gillian wearing the same old dress, Gillian’s stare fixed with envy on the diamond drop earrings, missing the contempt in the other woman’s eyes.
“It is so nice of you to come,” said the banker’s mistress in her German accent that some men found attractive.
“We always try and help. Just a few flowers for you, Vida,” said Bruno.
“How is your new book?”
“Coming along just fine. Hello, Robert. Not like yours of course. You remember my wife, Gillian?”
“What a lovely dress,” said Freya, unaware she had put her foot in her mouth.
“Ah, Mr Kannberg,” said Sir Jacob Rosenzweig. “We wanted to thank you for your articles praising Holy Knight. All publicity is good publicity but yours went beyond the call of duty. Yours was more than we might expect. The same magazine as Gregory L’Amour. When’s the book version coming out?”
“Hello, Bruno,” said Max Pearl. “This is Marsha. He’ll come round when he’s short of money. They all do. Money always talks. Marsha is a friend of Petronella who is here with Gerry Hollingsworth. Don’t you remember Petronella from the Thespian restaurant? You wanted a loan, I seem to remember. Gillian! Ravishing as usual. Do you like Vida’s new earrings? So pretty. So expensive.”
Bruno listened to the flow of trivia wash all round him, very few words meaning what they said. They drank cocktails handed them by a maid in a short black dress that flared at the knees. The cocktails were in tall glasses with cherries on sticks. Bruno watched his wife drink the first one straight down and take another from the tray when the girl wasn’t looking, offering the tray to the wife of the man who had directed Holy Knight, the film.
Robert St Clair was on edge with no one mentioning the war in England. Bruno thought it was likely deliberate. The morning papers in New York had talked about U-boats stalking the shipping lanes between America and Europe. In packs. The British were going to give their merchant ships Royal Navy protection and send them to and from America in convoys to stop the U-boat packs attacking them. Bruno presumed Robert St Clair had read the morning papers. His wife had, by the look of her. Poor Freya was smiling with difficulty. Bruno wondered if the poor woman would ever see her famous husband again after the boat sailed in the morning. Wisely, Bruno avoided the subject, trying, like the rest of them, to behave as though nothing untoward was happening in the skies over Britain. The twinge of worry about his parents in London was now constant at the back of his mind, like a toothache, only with a toothache he could go to the dentist and have the pain taken away.
They had not said a word to each other, Gillian going into one of her sulks the moment the dress was unobtainable. All her tricks were back. The flash of thigh and breast that usually made him capitulate to every one of her whims. This time it had left Bruno cold, the spoilt brat in his wife dominating his wife’s sexuality, drowning it out, turning him off, making him wonder if the power she held over him from the day they met had gone. Out the window. Each new flash having no sign of an effect.
Then Petronella smiled at him, the smile that every man and woman understood, and the game of sex was on again, making his wife look from one to the other before she understood. For Bruno, it was his day of liberation. In a room of people he preferred another woman to his wife. And all over a stupid dress not worth a tenth of its price, the tag from a Fifth Avenue shop worth far more than the dress itself, the snob value, the show-off value that Bruno had never been able to understand.
There she was. A shorthand typist in a short black dress. Pouting. Petulant. Concerned with herself. A woman he had thought himself in love with. Bruno began to laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” snapped Gillian.
“You, Gillian.”
“What do you mean?”
“You blew it,” he said, leaning close to her ear. “You blew it, darling.”
Even Bruno knew the ‘darling’ sounded sarcastic. Maybe it was meant to. Moving into the dining room Bruno found his place and sat down. He was his own man again. In control of his life. The jealous lust that had controlled his life was gone.
“Tell me about your next movie,” Bruno said across the table to Gerry Hollingsworth, sitting opposite next to Petronella. “Is Genevieve in the film? What’s happened to Gregory? Reading the movie magazines you’d think both of them had disappeared off the map. The RAF must have done something to him. Amazing how stars rise so quickly. And fall just as quickly. One minute they are all the news and next you never hear of them.”
“They are both at my house in Long Beach. Genevieve only talks about England. Her mother and father. The mother has a flat in Chelsea. She’s worried stiff. Our David and Ephraim are in the army. Both joined up after the evacuation at Dunkirk. When are you joining the British Army, Bruno? I’m too old, thank goodness. We’ll all have to face up to it in the end, even America, Max. No, they don’t want parts in a film. At the moment Genevieve wants to be left on her own. Wouldn’t surprise me if she went back to England. It sort of gets you, being so far away when your friends and family are taking the brunt. Instead of running away I should be doing something for the war effort.”
“It’s with me all day long, Mr Hollingsworth.”
“You’re not going to England?” said Gillian.
“There’s a point where it doesn’t have to be thought about. I’ll just do it. Apart from your films, I know nothing about going to war. I suppose it’s like anything else in life. We soon find out when we have to.”
Looking round the dinner table, Bruno saw they had all put down their knives and forks. For the first time in the evening no one was saying a word. Not even Gillian.
“I’m sorry,” he said and went back to eating his food, ignoring the ‘come on’ look from Petronella as she found his foot under the table, rubbing the inside of his ankle with what felt like her stockinged toe.
Finally, the war in Europe had walked into the room in New York. A big, ugly threat understood by every one of them and bigger than all.
3
Sir Jacob Rosenzweig, watching them all from the top of the table, had his own worries. The phone call had come through to his office late in the afternoon, Jacob taking the call without asking his secretary the name of the caller, a practice he found rude; if someone wished to talk to him they had their own reason, not for him to censor the call before he knew what it was going to be about. The voice at the other end was far away, right out of his past, a voice he had never expected to hear again.
“It’s Hannah, Jacob. How are you?”
“Hannah?”
“Your wife, Jacob. I’ve changed my mind. I want to come and live in New York.”
“Hannah, it’s been years. I have my own life in America.”
“So I heard.”
“Well, you can’t live at Abercrombie Place.”
“Why not? London’s dangerous. In case you haven’t heard over there, there’s a war going on right over our heads. Any minute a bomb’s coming through the roof. Remember, I gave you your children.”
Jacob, silent, contemplated what he considered a lie. Only one was his: Rebecca. The legality was different, all five being born to Hannah while they were legally married.
“Have you heard from Rebecca?”
“I paid them a visit. It’s criminal with all your money, Rebecca’s husband someone’s employee. They should farm their own land if they want to be farmers. All beats me.”
“Did you see the grandchildren?”
“Of course I did.”
“What are they like?”
“Boys and girls. I’d live with them in Rhodesia if they had their own farm. Mrs Brigandshaw was anything but polite to me. Said the farm manager’s job went with one house. We don’t like each other. Who does she think she is, telling me what I can and can’t do? I think she had spoken to Ralph. Why did you let that man marry our daughter, Jacob?”
“I didn’t, if you remember. Rebecca ran off with him.”
“You’ll just have to kick her out as I can’t stay in London. We have blackouts every night. All the windows have to be covered with black curtains, as if the Germans don’t know what’s below.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Vida, I think she calls herself. You’re old enough to be her grandfather for heaven’s sake. Haven’t you any idea of decorum, Jacob? She’s only after what she can get out of you. If we weren’t at war with Germany I’d have had her properly checked out. Gold-digger. There’s no fool like an old fool. I will bring decorum back into your life when I arrive in New York on Wednesday. If she’s still there when I arrive all hell will come down on your head, along with the best lawyers in America. Have you forgotten I’m your wife?”
“As a matter of fact, Hannah, I had forgotten.”
Looking at Petronella looking at young Bruno Kannberg made Jacob realise the world had indeed been turned on its head. Gerry Hollingsworth did not seem to mind. Gerry Hollingsworth, who had once been a Jew named Louis Casimir until he changed his name by deed poll to escape the tribe of Israel. Watching Gerry the way he seemed not to mind Petronella flirting with Bruno gave Jacob an idea. He would put Vida in another flat and see her just the same. Hannah never said she was going to do something and changed her mind. They had lived in the same house separately for years so nothing would have to change. It might even be cheaper if the Germans bombed his house in Golders Green. They wouldn't have to talk to each other except on social occasions, when other people were around. With luck Jacob could find Mabel and give her back her job as the cook.
Then his mind slipped off thinking about Rebecca. How much he had missed his daughter. How the two of them had first found the apartment in Abercrombie Place together. Somehow tears came into his eyes. Vida was still having her contest with Gillian Kannberg, twice leaning so close to the younger girl the drop diamond almost swung into Gillian’s face. Maybe Hannah was right. All Vida wanted was money. It was all about money. It always was about money. It probably always would be.
