The brigandshaw chronicl.., p.150
The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 150
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“Poor Harry. He must be feeling terrible. You were a long time.”
“She’s worried about Horatio.”
“Thank God you didn’t go.”
“Is she asleep?”
“Out like a light. Putting her down in the bath was your best idea. Don’t wake her up. Want a cup of tea before supper? You’ll want to listen to the news.”
“Yes, we’d better listen to the six o’clock news.”
Looking down, Tinus Oosthuizen could see the landing craft, all heading for the shore. At fifteen hundred feet he could see the first rays of the morning sun rising from German-occupied Europe. Down below on the sea the first light was full of moving shadows, the wakes of the blunt-nosed landing craft running back in straight phosphorescent lines. All other thoughts left his mind.
“They’ll be coming out of the sun, chaps,” he said over the radio.
“Bandits one-five to the northeast.”
“Tallyho.”
Adrenaline pumping, Tinus led his wing to the northeast, scanning the sky for the glint of sun reflecting off metal.
“I see them. I count ten bandits, 109s. Here we go.”
Within minutes the sky above Normandy was filled with dogfights while German artillery on the ground opened fire on the incoming landing craft. Quickly the 109s were breaking away, overwhelmed by the three squadrons of Mark IX Spitfires. For half an hour, Tinus patrolled above the landing beaches.
“Tinus, you can go back for fuel,” he heard from the incoming wing.
“They didn’t know we were coming, Janusz, or they don’t have enough aircraft. Not so good down below. Going home for fuel. Good hunting, my friend.”
All day the fighters left RAF Tangmere, Tinus flying six sorties before the dusk came and night shielded the troops on the beaches. Only the Americans on Omaha beach were held up by German artillery and machine gun fire. By nightfall the British and Canadian armies had reached the sand dunes and beyond. In the British sector the Royal Air Force had control of the sky, their overwhelming numbers preventing the Luftwaffe from attacking the ground troops.
In the officers’ mess, while the maintenance crews worked on the spitfires, Tinus stood with one elbow on the bar surrounded by his pilots.
“It took the Yanks longer than everyone expected. They were right to build up overwhelming force. The Germans don’t have the aircraft to fight on two fronts. The Americans will break out tomorrow. Equipment will be hitting the beach all night. Pratt, give everyone a drink and put it on my card.”
No one mentioned the pilot they had lost during the day until the round of drinks was in their hands.”
“Fisher,” said Tinus raising his glass. “At eighteen I hope his life was fulfilled.”
“Fisher,” said the other pilots.
When Janusz joined him at the bar, Tinus was not thinking of the youngest pilot in his wing. He was thinking of his cousin Anthony as he had been for days.
“Sorry to hear you lost Fisher. It’s always the novice.”
“The old hands among the Germans can see the inexperienced pilot and single him out. I was watching Fisher. When I got to him it was too late. He was going down in flames. Did you lose any pilots?”
“Not today, Tinus.”
“Anthony was just unlucky. Bomb bay open to drop his stick and a shell hits the bloody load. Fluke. Lucky shot. He was coming to live in Africa after the war. Had it all planned. Had a girl to marry. Well, he can’t do any of that now. You never heard a word out of Poland since you fled the country after the German invasion?”
“Neither my family, nor Ingrid. Not a word. Now, instead of being ruled by the Nazis, we’re going to be ruled by the communists. I wonder why I worried.”
“You can stay in England.”
“On my own? I’m a Pole, Tinus. The same way you are an African. You love Africa. I love my country. Except there isn’t one now.”
“The Russians will let you go home.”
“To what? Communism confiscates the land. Gives it to the people to run as a commune. Well, I suppose that is good for some if they know how to farm. I was educated to be a lawyer and run the family estate one day. Father was a judge. All those jobs are defunct under communism. In Russia they shot their aristocracy. Going back to Poland after the war claiming I’m Count Kowalski will get me shot. No, there’s no comfort for me after the war. Even if I find my family alive.”
“You could come out to Africa. There’s plenty of land in Africa that is not being used. The population in Rhodesia is sprinkled among a few rural villages. The wild animals roam over most of Rhodesia.”
“The Americans won’t let you keep your empire once they’ve won your war for you. India will be first to get independence. The Americans are already talking about a free world under democratic rule. Colonialism will be a dirty word.”
“They need us to develop Africa. Without our knowledge the black man will starve as they multiply. With modern medicine we’ve cut the child mortality rate in Rhodesia by eighty per cent in the last fifty years.”
“They won’t remember that. They’ll want their land back. Like the Russian peasants. People always want what they haven’t got. They don’t see hard work and knowledge as a prerequisite for making a success of their lives. When the politicians say they are going to give them what they want the people think it’s a handout. That they’ll have everything for doing nothing. We should go to America. That’s where we should go. You know the old saying, if you can’t beat them, join them.”
“Genevieve has suggested the same. She’s also worried about the future of the white man in Africa.”
“Doomed, I’d say. When this is over, go to her in America, Tinus.”
“I might just do that. You can come with me… First light tomorrow. The CO says we’ll be flying six sorties a day for the next week. A few more drinks and I’m getting some sleep. It’s the beginning of the end, Janusz. The invasion of Normandy is the beginning of the end of the war in Europe.”
“For the British maybe. I don’t think so for the Poles. We’ll be no better off under the Russians than under the Germans. All of us. Not just the aristocracy.”
3
Sarah Coombes held his hand when Harry Brigandshaw went round on the Wednesday for his weekly cup of tea. The Air Member for Personnel suggested he take a week’s leave. Vic Bell pussyfooted around his office every morning with the daily situation report. Everyone, as Harry put it to himself, was so damned nice while all he wanted to do was scream from the top of a hill. There was nothing anyone could do. He had to sort out his own mind. Stop the recurring picture of the exploding bomb bay, Anthony turning round from the cockpit as he recognised in a second before death he was going to die. The worst curse for Harry was a vivid imagination, with each time his inability to stop what was about to happen.
In deference to Air Vice Marshal Healy’s suggestion, Harry put in a formal request for leave which was instantly granted. Going down to Hastings Court on the Thursday night from London a day early, Harry took the 770cc BSA motorcycle from the shed. The same bike he had owned for nearly twenty years. In the flying coat he had worn in the First World War, flying goggles to keep the wind out of his eyes, Harry began the long ride to Corfe Castle and the Purbeck Hills where first he had screamed at the loss of Lucinda St Clair, his wife killed by Mervyn Braithwaite while Lucinda was expecting Harry’s first child. Soon after the war had ended, Braithwaite, out of his mind from all the killing he had endured in the war, had felt the urge to go on killing his imagined enemies, friends turned to foes in his paranoid mind. Riding the bike at full throttle, Harry hurled himself through the English lanes seeing nothing that was not in his mind. For four years all Harry had seen of his family was Anthony. Anthony back from flying school in Gwelo. Anthony in his officer’s uniform, new wings bright on his breast. Anthony at Hastings Court, the two of them walking the estate, talking, always talking. Of the future, of what his eldest son was going to do with the rest of his life, the excitement, the hope, the golden future of a perfect life seen through the eyes of youth before the warts set in and reality came down to the facts of life. Eleanor, the perfect girl, never to argue with in his life. Harry, seeing the excitement in his son that made life worth the living, even though Harry knew most of what his son wanted was the basis of fiction.
Except for petrol, Harry did not stop until he reached Purbeck Manor and looked up at the Purbeck Hills. Without seeing anyone, Harry left the flying coat and goggles draped over the bike. Looking at the spine of the Purbeck Hills in the middle distance, Harry began the long walk. Over the small stream, up the paths he had walked so long ago with Lucinda until he reached the top. Harry knelt down first and prayed to all the gods. Then he stood up and screamed at the heavens, the sound echoing down into the valley, the birds taking little notice, a rabbit scurrying away, a cock pheasant lifting out of the bushes to fly down into the valley empty of people. Then he was finished.
When Harry walked back to the Manor house and his lonely motorbike parked in the drive, Robert St Clair was waiting. Neither said a word. They hugged each other. Then Harry looked up to the second floor landing of the old house and saw Lady St Clair, who once had been his mother-in-law. Maybe she still was. Later he would ride to see the Pringles and tell them the news they likely knew already. Maybe losing a grandson for Old Pringle was as bad as Harry losing a son. Harry did not know.
Merlin St Clair came down the steps from the long terrace that ran the length of the house and shook his hand. Mrs Mason, the cook, was standing just outside the gothic front door of the house.
“I’m so sorry, Harry,” he said. “If anything ever happened to Genevieve I don’t know what I would do. How are you coping, Harry?”
“Went up on the hills over there and screamed at the heavens.”
“You did that, I remember, when you came back from Africa two years after Lucinda was killed.”
“Somehow again it has made me feel better.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Back in the office on Monday. With the war going on, we have to go on for the ones that can’t fight anymore… I need the distraction.”
“Judging from last night’s six o’clock news, the invasion has been a success. You likely know more than us tucked away in the country. Old Mrs Mason will see you have a room. You remember Mrs Mason? She’s still the housekeeper and the cook. She and mother are a comfort to each other. He was such a lovely boy. Why does God always take the best in a war? We weren’t so lucky either, Harry. Lost Frederick, then Robert lost his foot, which wasn’t so bad for a writer. A writer doesn’t need two feet to write a good novel. But you know this… Robert has a new book on the way. Freya said she was going into Corfe Castle for something. For Chuck. Why do Americans call Charles by the name of Chuck? Never did understand. Richard’s at school. Well, you know all that as well. How long are you staying?”
Smiling at Merlin’s forgetfulness, Harry followed them into the old house. When he reached the lounge, Lady St Clair was waiting to give him another sympathetic hug. Harry wondered if she knew Frank was her grandson, Barnaby’s son, not his. The thought of his family coming back from Africa made him suddenly smile.
“Nothing like a good scream,” he said, accepting the glass of dry sherry Robert put in his hand.
“To absent friends,” said Robert raising his glass.
“To absent friends,” they all said in reply.
For Harry, it was good to be among old friends who had shared so much of his life. Through the open door, Harry could see Mrs Mason going off with his old flying coat to make him up a room. For the first time in many years he could feel the presence of Lucinda, dead for so long. Outside the window, looking out from the back of the house, the lawn was uncut, like the lawns at Hastings Court, for lack of petrol to drive the lawnmowers.
“Why do we bother to cut lawns, Harry?” asked Robert following the direction of Harry’s gaze. “We could trim everything and bring it into line. Does that make it any more beautiful? We like to impose our will. Silly. All of nature is best left alone. You think we’ve lived too long, Harry? Is there more in the past, for the likes of you and I, than the future? Oxford. Where you and I met. All that enthusiasm to change the world. All that energy expended to get our degrees. Did we ever use our degrees? Did we ever learn anything?”
“We learnt to think. That was all it was about. Now I’m thinking too much. All I do is think of him. Will it fade? Will his face fade away by the time I’m very old? Is there anything left of this life when we die? The world only exists when it is seen in our own minds. Without our minds creating the picture there would be nothing… Are you going back to America when the war’s over? Won’t be long now. Months rather than years. All that death and destruction. What for? We all have to rebuild what we knocked down. The Americans are talking about rebuilding a new Europe with some kind of an economic plan. To stop us all squabbling. There will always be disagreement. Human nature. To kill and be killed. Darwin and his bloody survival of the fittest. Anthony was one of the fittest. So was André Cloete, South African friend of my nephew Tinus. Only the living talk. The dead stop where they died, soon forgotten. Sorry, Robert. I’m just feeling sorry for myself; the most pointless act of mankind. What’s the point of feeling sorry for oneself? Makes me achingly sad. The children coming back will help.”
“And Tina?”
“Four years is a long time. I never ask her on the phone what she’s up to. If it’s bad, I don’t want to know. If it’s good, I hope she will tell me. It’s only ever about the children. Never about us. We need the children more than they need us. Does Freya miss her parents, I wonder? Not as much as they miss her. What I’m going to do to amuse myself after the war I don’t know. Right now, Tinus is giving air cover over the landing beaches. Once the army have secured the German airfields he’ll fly his wing to France, I suppose. He’s survived so much. Just a few more months. How does Merlin see Tinus as a son-in-law?”
“Never talks about it.”
“I suppose he wouldn't. Fathers can be jealous of their daughters, so I am told. How’s the new book coming along? Whatever happened to the mother? Esther, I think, was her name. Barmaid at the Running Horses at Mickleham. Strange, Merlin should meet her so close to my ancestral home. These things happen in times of war.”
“Like the rest of them. In the end they get written. People read them. Just another business really, Harry. Another way to make money. She’s drunk most of the time, to answer your question. Genevieve keeps in contact. Drunks live solitary, lonely lives.”
“There must be more to it than that, writing a book.”
“Sometimes. The publishers get excited. Max Pearl in America likes money. His whole life has been focused on money. Why do people want more and more money when they’ve got enough?”
“Feelings of insecurity. As hunters and gatherers our ancestors always searched for more. Even when they had enough food. Wired into us, I suppose. Barnaby can never get enough. Do you think she knows?” said Harry, looking at Lady St Clair where she sat talking to Merlin on the deep settee.
“Probably. My mother would think it rude to talk about something like that. ‘Some things, Robert, are best left alone,’ she would say to me. Frank’s birth is one of those subjects.”
“He must know instinctively he’s different to the others. Always fighting. Always on the offensive. Always on the outside is Frank.”
“He’ll grow out of it.”
“I hope so. For his sake. And everyone else’s. Do you believe the sins of the father are visited on the son?”
When Harry looked up, Lady St Clair was looking straight at him. A look of admonition he remembered from his own mother. Lady St Clair must have heard what they were just saying.
“Have another sherry, Harry.”
“I’d better. What a strange life it has been for all of us.”
“Where are you going to live after the war?”
“Who knows? Tina will want to live in England. I want to go home to Africa. My mother would love to fuss over my children on Elephant Walk. Do we ever get what we want? I don’t think so. Even when we get what we think we want. The human race is never satisfied. No wonder we are always fighting... Will the bike be all right in the driveway?” They could both hear a car outside.
“I expect so. Sounds like Freya and the children. Let’s go out and say hello. That look my mother just gave you was so sad behind the disapproval.”
The next day after breakfast Harry took the footpath along the stream in the direction of Corfe Castle. The previous evening Mrs Mason had made them sandwiches for their supper. No one had wished to sit down to a formal dinner. Halfway to Corfe Castle, Harry knocked on the door to the railway cottage. The walk had softened his mood. Mrs P, Tina’s mother, opened the door. Old Pringle was in the shadow behind his wife, the morning sunlight blinding Harry at first as he went inside. No one said a word. In the kitchen, on the mantelpiece over the wood-fired stove, was a photograph of Anthony in his officer’s uniform, the peaked hat at a jaunty angle on his head. The photograph took in the head and shoulders with the RAF wings on Anthony’s uniform prominent. Next to the photograph was the picture of a young girl. Mrs P began to cry. Old Pringle put his arm through hers and took her to a comfortable chair near the kitchen table where he sat her down. On the stove, the kettle was just on the boil. Harry had never visited his in-laws without finding the kettle ready to make a pot of tea.
“Who’s the pretty girl?” asked Harry.
“Eleanor Botha,” said Mrs P looking up through her tears. “They were going to be married and live in Rhodesia.”
“When did he last visit you?”
“A month ago. Said not to say. Worried you were always on your own in that big house over the weekends. Every third leave he visited us, Harry.”
“Tina phoned?”
“She’s coming home with the children. There’s a telephone at the railway station. Mr P’s still working. Doesn’t want to stop. Are you staying at the Manor with Lady St Clair?”
