The brigandshaw chronicl.., p.144
The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 144
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“Then you know all about war. When did you last get some sleep?”
“Three days ago. I was rewriting a film script for Gregory L’Amour and Genevieve.”
“You met them! Now he’s a real American hero. The All American Man, they call him. Now I am impressed. Do you mind if I call you Bruno? I’d give just about anything to get that girl into bed.”
“Why am I not an officer? There’s no rank on this uniform that I can see.”
“Well, Bruno, first you got to be a soldier. Then you got to go to Officer College. Then they put a rank on your uniform. We don’t want photographers and newsmen in suits on our destroyers. Looks untidy. Bad for discipline. We want you to blend into the war, Bruno. When you go ashore, wading with the troops, you got to look right. But no rank I’m afraid.”
“I’m going ashore!”
“Of course you are. Don’t get your camera wet. Only bigshot war correspondents get invited. Daily Mirror. Popular paper. Spent a week in London when I was twenty-one. Just out of college. Did a stint with the Denver Telegraph. Denver, Colorado. I’m also a newspaper man, or was until I went into the army two days after the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. You’ll still see our ships sunk in the harbour. Bastards didn’t even declare war. Now is that honourable? Is that the honour the Japs talk about when they despise their prisoners of war for being captured and not fighting to the death? After the fall of Singapore and the surrender of the British Army they’re making the prisoners build a railway line across Burma on a handful of rice a day, according to our information. Your troops are dying like flies. Don’t worry. Uncle Sam’s going to teach the Japs a lesson and save those British prisoners.”
“I hope so. My friend’s cousin was captured in Singapore. Not a word from him since. Chinese wife and two kids and William doesn’t know what’s happened to any of them. Are you sure about what you heard?”
“Get some sleep now. The aircraft is noisy. No frills in the army. When they come for you I’ll have them bring a mug of strong coffee. On the plane I want to hear all about Gregory L’Amour and Genevieve. All our information is correct, Bruno. Who would make up such a story?”
2
When Gillian asked to stay a few days, Genevieve agreed. There was a small bedroom with a single bed that was never used. She was lonely. Being famous often made it worse. To have another Englishwoman to talk to when she came home from the studio would stop her brooding over Tinus. Whether she liked the girl or not it did not matter, or what Gregory L’Amour was up to on the side. Ever since Tinus had given her the ring with the small diamond she had not so much as looked at another man. When Gillian, Bruno and herself were finishing off the book on her short life that had sold so well on both sides of the Atlantic, they had got on well enough. There were so many twists and turns in life.
The moment Bruno was seen off in the taxi at the start of his journey, Gillian had moved into the seventh-floor flat in downtown Los Angeles and Genevieve had the feeling her guest would remain until her husband came back from the war.
Genevieve had given her the spare key and a note to the downstairs security desk. She had also told Jim to expect a friend who was going to stay in her flat. When Genevieve came home after the day’s shoot and opened her front door, the smell of steak and kidney pudding wafted over her. Instantly her mouth watered. Steak and kidney pudding done in a white bowl with a saucer on top of the suet pastry, wrapped in a white tea-towel and boiled in a pot of water was the cook’s favourite dish for them when they stayed together at Hastings Court. It was Genevieve’s favourite, something she could never find in America; steak and kidney pie, but never steak and kidney pudding. Her guest was in the kitchen wearing Genevieve’s apron when Genevieve followed the smell of the cooking to its source.
“That smell, Gillian. It’s so English. Makes me so homesick.”
“He’s gone. Poor Bruno is scared to death. I thought men strode off to war with a smile and a whistle. So much for the big brave husband.”
“André Cloete threw up every time before he got into his aeroplane. Before and during the war. There’s nothing wrong with being afraid of dying. Tinus says he shakes from the moment they are scrambled to their aircraft in full flying kit and a parachute on his back. Once in the cockpit of his Spitfire his teeth chatter uncontrollably. Only when he sights enemy aircraft does complete calm come over him. Every fibre of his body comes into focus. Tinus says a man’s a fool if he thinks he’s not going to get killed. That most of the gung-ho types get themselves killed in the first two weeks of combat. My father said it was the same in the trenches in the last war. Uncle Harry told Tinus what to expect and not to be frightened of fear. Uncle Harry says it’s fear that concentrates a man’s mind. Makes a good pilot in war and in peacetime when something goes wrong. Don’t knock your husband, Gillian. You missed the Blitz. If I may be so rude to say, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Just pray Bruno comes home. He’s a good man. Uncle Harry once said good men, truly good men, not those who make themselves out to be good, are as rare as hen’s teeth.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I’m also on edge. All the time not knowing what he’s doing. The pudding makes up for everything. Now we can worry together. How about a gin and tonic? My mother’s favourite. Did I ever tell you my mother was the barmaid in the Running Horses at Mickleham during the last war?”
“It was in the book.”
“Of course it was. How silly of me.”
“Why aren’t you full of yourself, Genevieve? You’re famous. Your dad’s a lord.”
“My mother says we all look the same under a bus. You want too much, Gillian. There’s only so much we can have in life. All the baubles, however expensive, never count. They never change us, change who we are, however rich and famous we may become.”
“How’s the film?”
“Much better now we’re not talking garbage. He’s good, Gillian. Bruno’s good. Very good. There’s a big career waiting for him in films.”
“I’m going to enjoy staying with you.”
“So am I. I get lonely. Big gin or small gin?”
“Big one.”
“Good. Then we’ll open a bottle of red wine with the steak and kidney pud. No filming tomorrow. It’s a Sunday. We can get a little drunk and have a good chinwag. I haven’t had a good chinwag with a girlfriend in years.”
“Neither have I.”
Impulsively they both hugged each other before going into the lounge where Genevieve opened her cocktail cabinet and poured them both a stiff gin. Then they sat down.
“Tomorrow it’s my turn. I’ll take you out to dinner.”
Vida Wagner recognised Genevieve from her first dinner party at Abercrombie Place with Harry Brigandshaw and Robert St Clair. Everyone else in the restaurant knew Genevieve too. It was a game in Los Angeles to go out to famous restaurants looking to spot famous people. Vida waved. To her surprise, Genevieve waved back and walked across towards her table.
Life since running out of New York had been good to her. So far as she knew Jacob Rosenzweig, her ‘old goat’, had not found out where she lived despite her promise to still be his mistress on the quiet now his wife was back in his life and living with him in New York. She had his money from the trust fund which was what counted. In most people’s eyes she was rich.
The man holding her hand under the table and stroking her knee was ten years her junior. The poor boy had tried the movies where his good looks got him in the door. Unfortunately he could not act. Without money, away from his roots in the mid-west, the only alternative to going home or joining the army was rich, older women. The army thought he was thirty-two, which was a lie to avoid conscription. Nathan Squires was twenty-eight with not an ounce of fat on his beautiful body, and he knew how to ‘sing for his supper’. She would dump him when she was bored. For the moment he made her feel good. Attentive men always made her feel good. Like the large sum of money old Sir Jacob had placed in her trust fund to pay for the last bit of fun in his life before he died.
Rich in LA was the perfect combination. Going back to Berlin, with her Germany no longer winning the war, had slipped out of her mind. She was having a good time. All her plans had come to fruition. So long as no one found out her story, that her papers were false, nothing could go wrong. If they found out, she had money. Her own money. Coerced but not stolen. Anyway, she always rationalised with herself, old Rosenzweig had enough money for everyone. Priorities for Vida had changed. She had the best of both worlds in America pretending she was Jewish, not Lebanese where both her families came from, mother and father, her Arab ancestry as anti-Jewish as the Germans, whatever her family’s religion.
“Hello, Vida. Gerry Hollingsworth wondered where you were. Do you still keep in touch with Sir Jacob Rosenzweig?”
“His wife ran away from the London Blitz and came to New York. I had no idea he was married. This is Nathan. Nathan, meet the famous Genevieve. You want to join us?”
“I’d like to. You met my Uncle Robert who wrote Holy Knight, and Harry Brigandshaw I like to call Uncle Harry. That was some dinner party you put on. I think you know my friend, Gillian Kannberg? Her husband’s gone off to cover the war in the South Pacific. We’re consoling each other. You remember Tinus from that party? We’re engaged. He’s a fighter pilot in the Royal Air Force. Being German Jewish you won’t mind that will you? Are you also in film, Nathan?”
“I’ve been trying.”
“Keep trying. You never know. Can we sit down, Vida? Your boyfriend financed the movie I’m making.”
“He’s no longer my boyfriend.”
“I suppose not. You did something for him, Vida. First time I ever saw him happy that night. Max Pearl said the same. That’s the most precious gift you can give anyone. Happiness. What else is life all about?”
“What’s your new movie about? Gregory L’Amour. I read about it.”
“How America is winning the war. Morale booster. Since Gillian’s Bruno rewrote all the dialogue it’s going to be good. Certainly make money. Sir Jacob will make a lot of money.”
“Same old story. Money makes money.”
“Only if you look after it, according to Uncle Harry. They have lovely fresh oysters, Gillian. Gillian cooked last night. This is my treat. With filming tomorrow I just can’t drink. Cameras have an uncanny way of finding the hangover deep in the back of my mismatched eyes. Gerry Hollingsworth’s son was killed. Gerry was also at your dinner party.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re lucky to have got out of Germany. Hitler’s final solution for the Jews is appalling. The things mankind does to each other in the name of religion. We have the same god but that doesn’t seem to matter… Thank you, Pablo. You can tell François I don’t need my table reservation. He can give it to some lucky person. This is my favourite restaurant, Vida. They look after me.”
“So I can see. Thank you for joining us, Genevieve.”
“It’s my pleasure. You knowing Tinus makes me feel closer to him. You’ll have the lobster, Gillian? Good. Oysters to start. Put this table’s food on my cheque, Pablo. And whatever else the people have tonight.”
“Not at all. Sir Jacob left me well provided.”
“If you insist. Looks like a free supper for me tonight, Pablo…. Now tell me what you’ve been up to, Vida?”
Smiling to herself, Genevieve watched Gillian plunge into conversation with Nathan, her eyes sparkling. By the time the oysters arrived she had Nathan’s complete attention.
“You don’t mind?” she asked Vida, raising her eyebrow.
“Plenty more like that where he comes from,” whispered Vida close to her ear. “It’s only money.”
“Ah. Yes, well I suppose it is. Never looked at it that way. Maybe I should. You look happy, Vida.”
“I am.”
People came and went to and from the table. A photographer, with Genevieve’s permission, took a photograph. Most people knew each other. Getting a table at the Oasis without first knowing François was virtually impossible. A lucky shot like the party of four sitting next to Genevieve’s table, looking around like children at their first fair, gawping at the people they had only seen before in the newspapers. Genevieve couldn’t hear one word about the war. It was all about showing off and talking rich which for some was a career in itself. At least her grandmother in Corfe Castle would laugh at her now sitting with Vida Wagner in François’s restaurant.
When they found out they lived just one street apart, Vida in an expensive apartment five storeys up from the traffic, it was the address that counted, like being seen having supper in the Oasis. For Genevieve being seen and smiling was part of her job. In a roundabout way what she was paid for by Gerry Hollingsworth. Good individual press for the stars was as important as a good critique for the film. Everyone fed off everyone else, the money going round and round. The trick, Gerry Hollingsworth said to her, was to make sure the money never stopped going round.
Gillian said nothing more about Nathan Squires when they reached Genevieve’s apartment. They both went straight to bed. When Genevieve went to work in the morning Gillian was still sleeping in the small room with the single bed. The phone had not rung and no one had slipped a telegram under the front door. It was the small envelope under the door that Genevieve feared most.
Confident that Tinus was alive, she did a good day’s filming. All of them on the set said how well the dialogue was sounding.
“Who did it, Genevieve?” asked Gerry Hollingsworth.
“You won’t be insulted?”
“I’m in this game only to make money. Getting my back up never makes me money.”
“Bruno Kannberg. On his way to the South Pacific. When the war’s over he wants to be a scriptwriter.”
“You mean if I give him an idea he can write a script like this? Perfect. What’s he doing in the South Pacific?”
“Trying not to get himself killed. Accredited to the marines on a US destroyer. They want him to land on the beach with the troops and take photographs. Stanley, his photographer on the Mirror, taught him how to use the camera. They only want one newsman from a British newspaper on the destroyer. Something about space and security.”
“This war never stops.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Gerry Hollingsworth put a comforting hand on Genevieve’s shoulder and walked away. Both knew what the other was thinking without having to say.
When Genevieve went home early she could smell the sex as she opened her front door. The afternoon shooting had not required her character. The word ‘nymphomaniac’ for Bruno’s wife came to her mind. Neither of them said a word. Nathan Squires must have left minutes before she opened the door. She would have to have a word with Jim at the security desk. The man must have tipped off Gillian by phone when Genevieve entered the building.
Going straight to her window she looked down onto the street seven storeys below and waited. He had to still be in the building. When he came out soon after and hailed a cab Genevieve was not sure whether to clap her hands or be annoyed.
When Gillian appeared, Genevieve was still looking down onto the street. What other people did in their lives was none of Genevieve’s business. In a way it was like putting horns on Gregory L’Amour, making Genevieve feel better about Gregory’s infidelity with another woman that wasn’t her. Human emotions were indeed strange. She was as bad as the rest of them with no right to get up on her own high horse. The one-night stand with William Smythe came to mind, along with the consequences for the poor man. She just hoped he would stay happily married to his secretary. That when they met again the pain would have gone from William’s eyes. Uncle Harry had written Betty Townsend, now Betty Smythe, was pregnant with their first child. That Uncle Harry had been asked to stand as godfather. In that strange roundabout way they would all be related for the rest of their lives.
“He’s gone,” said Genevieve. “No matter. Gregory sends his love. My part didn’t have to shoot this afternoon. Go back to your nap. I’m having one. I always take a nap when I get the chance.”
Gillian said nothing which for both of them was the right thing to do. As they said so often, there was a war going on. During wars the rules for some reason were different. Genevieve thought it was likely the primal instinct to procreate when the species was threatened. That if the men died the women would still have their children to carry on the human race. Tinus was wrong and she was right. Unlike Betty Townsend she had been a fool not to get herself pregnant by Tinus when she still had the chance. Then she made up her mind. When the film shoot was over she was going to England to get herself pregnant. Tinus would never have to be told it was deliberate. That way, whatever happened, she would not spend the rest of her life on her own.
3
The word reached Horatio Wakefield in London before it reached Gillian Kannberg in Los Angeles. Bruno Kannberg was missing in action. Billy Glass, the editor of the London Daily Mail had heard the news first from Arthur Bumley at the Mirror and called Horatio into his Fleet Street office. It was the last week in May and the trees in London parks and along the side streets were green with the new leaves of spring. Life was renewing itself after the cold, bleak winter.
“You’re a friend of Kannberg. Doesn’t look so good. Went ashore on one of the islands near Guadalcanal and hasn’t been seen since. Heavy fighting. Japanese soldiers don’t believe in surrender. Fight to the end. Honour before life or some such tripe. Amazing how you can indoctrinate the average sod to lay down his life for his country which isn’t his anyway. Only the buggers at the top gain. The troops are fighting nine times out of ten for the privileged who never hear a gun fired in anger. All tied in with religion. For God and country. Bullshit. For the people with the money and their cronies. Brainwashed. The whole damn lot of us. In Africa they sent the missionaries first. When the locals put the missionaries in the pot to boil them, we sent in the troops. If the missionaries didn’t end in the pot they told the locals to kneel down and close their eyes. Whichever way they opened their eyes they found the Union Jack flying above them in the name of Western civilisation. Just a fresh approach to man’s eternal quest for conquest. No one’s ever satisfied with what they’ve got. Anyway, the empire’s finished. The moment we lost Hong Kong and Singapore to the Japs, the empire was finished. Once you’re seen as vulnerable and lose face you never get back on top. No one believes you are invincible anymore. They’re not frightened of you. Even if we win the war India will want independence. And why not? Like the Chinese, they were civilised thousands of years ago when our ancestors were still climbing trees. Poor Kannberg. Another sacrifice on the funeral pyre of empire. After Asia, Africa will want to break its colonial shackles. The Americans can’t wait. All those lovely new markets just waiting for American business and the mighty dollar. Do you know, we just had to pledge the Bahamas for those defunct and out of date destroyers the Americans gave us on lend-lease. We haven’t got a bloody dollar left in the bank. Were it not for Rhodesian tobacco, none of us could get a smoke. The Yanks want to be paid in dollars for their tobacco. Can you believe it? A poor sod can’t even have a smoke. They only came over here in droves to protect us because we owe them so much money. The old story. Borrow twenty quid from the bank and you’ve got a problem, Wakefield. Borrow a million and the bank’s got a problem if you can’t pay it back. After this damn war’s over the Americans will have to get Europe’s economy going again or they’ll never get their money back. We’ll all be working to pay back the Yanks for the next fifty years.”
