The brigandshaw chronicl.., p.50
The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 50
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“You can stay as long as you like. However it happened, you are still my wife. In America, once the business side of the affair had disintegrated, I thought there was no point in staying. I was superfluous. Anyway, I was penniless. Those people don’t like the poor. So I came home to the last part of my family inheritance. I didn’t think you had seen me go.”
“I like the house.”
“It’s comfortable. Even in winter, if I have cut enough firewood during the summer.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
“The war killed him, Stella. He thought he wasn’t a man without his legs… How is your father coping with the pension scandal? Your brothers?”
“They want to put him in prison.”
“That wily Irishman! Never. He’s got too much on too many people… Does he want his million dollars back now I’ve gone? He can’t even have this house as it is in a trust entailed to the son I never had. Someone will claim the title and the house when I die. There must be some male descendant I don’t know of. All he has to do is prove direct lineage back to one of the Ravenhursts. If no one comes forward, the property reverts to the state.”
“Unless we have a son.”
“Stella. Be sensible. After a month in this wilderness, you will be going round the bend.”
“I’m nothing in America.”
“Poor girl. You really are in a state. Don’t say any more. Just see what happens… Rabbit stew for supper. How does that sound?”
“You will have to teach me to cook… Do you think there’ll be another war in Europe?” Stella said, for something to say when her husband did not pick up on the idea of them having a son together.
“There are always wars in Europe. Humanity always fights among itself.”
“What are you doing for money?”
“Translating ancient Greek texts. I’m an educated man, Stella, for what that is worth financially. That is all I am… Did I ever tell you I can also speak French and German? Good. That would have been boasting. I was taught a gentleman should never boast about himself. My goodness, Stella, you look terrible. When did you last have food?”
“Yesterday. I think it was yesterday… Thank you for being so kind to me.”
Only then did the tears break.
Tina Brigandshaw booked them all on the SS Corfe Castle, the encounter with Barnaby St Clair finally making up her mind. She was still the major shareholder in Colonial Shipping and entitled to the owner’s cabin when she wanted to take a trip. Everything was free until the Department of Inland Revenue sold her up in September. Share prices, despite her hopes, were still going down around the world.
The trip she planned was in August. There were other jobs she had to do, like the letter she had written to Brett Kentrich a week before she received the phone call from Cuddles Morton-Sayner saying how much the Royal Albert Hall needed a new roof. Flattered someone had phoned to include her in a social event, something that had not happened since Horatio Wakefield stopped writing about Harry in the Daily Mail, she had accepted without thinking why the woman would want her at the Dorchester. The devious Cuddles never did anything without a reason. A last-minute invitation should have warned Tina something was wrong. Maybe because the Dorchester was round the corner, she accepted on first impulse. Giving the Royal Albert Hall money that would be claimed by the government in September also had something to do with it, which set her to thinking of stashing cash away where no one would know where to look for it.
She was back wearing the size of clothes she had worn before her first child was born. All the worrying had given her little appetite for anything, which included food. The children had their food in the nursery given them by Ivy and Molly, who had both surprised Tina by wanting to go on the boat.
“We love the children,” Ivy had said.
The thought of five children running riot around the first-class deck of the Corfe Castle had gone through her mind. In Africa, the family would give her nannies to look after the children. With so many things on her mind, Tina had said yes to the nurses and booked another cabin for Ivy and Molly. It would cost her nothing. Maybe the girls would find themselves rich husbands in Rhodesia where Tina knew the young men outnumbered the young girls four to one. She could see Ivy and Molly were pretty enough in their nurse’s uniforms and caps. Ivy had a pert little nose.
As she confidently walked through the entrance to the Dorchester Hotel, Tina was hoping her life was going to fall into some kind of place. Waiting for her in the lobby was Barnaby St Clair with a grin on his face. Only then did it dawn on her what Cuddles Morton-Sayner was up to: looking after one of the few young men in London still stinking rich.
“This is not a coincidence, is it?” said Tina, caught between the door and the reception desk of the hotel.
“It was not my idea. I’m surprised you fell for one of Cuddles’s old tricks. How are you, Tina?”
“Didn’t I tell you to go to hell?”
“You look wonderful. Most important I hear you need my financial expertise. Not my money, Tina. My expertise. I thought I would be sadly wanting if I did not help such a very old friend. Anyway, you forget I have an interest in the whole debacle.”
“What have you heard?”
“That you wrote to Mrs Marlowe, our esteemed Brett, to the effect the government would likely sell her leasehold flat. That Harry had given her the keys to the flat in Regent Mews and the keys to the red car. That he registered neither in Brett’s name. Christopher phoned me. They’ve moved out already. He’s back in his attic, can you believe the man? Now she’s out of a part on the stage, she’s singing at Clara’s. With Christopher back on the piano. The strangest part is they look happy… I can never figure out people… You see, we need a chat. First, we go up to the ballroom and give the roof some money. Then you and I are going to Clara’s. Did I mention you look smashing?”
“Barnaby, you are incorrigible.”
“I know.”
Tina’s knees had gone weak as usual at the sight of him.
Clara’s, when they got there after the cocktail party, was not as full as usual. What the papers were calling the start of a world depression was affecting everyone. Christopher Marlowe waved from where he was sitting on his piano stool. There was no sign of Brett.
They sat at the bar looking at each other, not having to say a word, just looking at each other. It was one of the nice things, Tina told herself, about knowing a man for the whole of one’s life. Neither of them was forced to talk.
Danny Hill was playing the trumpet again. Harvey Lyttleton was crooning through an old number he had been singing for years. Clara was moving comfortably from table to table, talking to her guests. It all looked so normal except she was sitting with Barnaby and not Harry. What was she going to do, she tried to ask herself? Her mind told her to bolt out of the restaurant. Her body was craving for his company. Nothing over all the years had ever changed. Not even Frank. Not even having a son together. They were looking at each other. Knowing. Knowing what was to happen. That this time there was no one to hurt but themselves.
When Brett came on to sing with the band, they both sat up and took notice. Tina had not seen or heard from Brett after writing her the letter about the flat. The bar and the small bandstand were on the same level and not so far apart for Tina to know something had changed in Brett other than where she was living.
Brett had looked at Christopher as she stood in front of the microphone with a look of intense familiarity. Christopher back with his black beret on the top of his head and pulled to one side had gently smiled back, tinkling the first bars of the tune she was going to sing. The love song from Happy Times. The tune that had made both of them famous.
Right through the song, Brett sang to her husband. Barnaby said not a word. Both of them watched, transfixed by what they were seeing. The girl was in love. Despite the loss of her leading part on the stage and the loss of her flat, Brett was intolerably happy, making both Tina and Barnaby look sad and envious at the same time. The tune finished. Harvey Lyttleton joined Brett to sing the Cole Porter duet. Again, instead of singing the words to the crooner, Brett sang to the man in the beret sitting at the piano.
“Can you tell me what’s going on there?” Barnaby asked, turning to Tina.
“She’s pregnant. Brett’s pregnant. And happy.”
When Tina saw the expression on Barnaby’s face, an expression of pained, faraway sadness, she understood. Barnaby had yet to see his son.
“We can go back to the Berkeley Square house. They’ll all be asleep. That’s as far as it goes. You understand?”
“Thank you, Tina.”
For the first time Tina had ever heard, Barnaby sounded humble. Their unexpected evening had taken another turn.
“I’m going back to Africa in August. With all the children. Do you want to do this?”
“Of course. He’s my son.”
There was no hurry. They had the rest of their lives to work through the problem they had created. Barnaby ordered another drink for them both. Tina knew she was drinking too much. Had been drinking too much for some time. Even on her own in the Berkeley Square house. Africa, she knew, would be worse. Far worse. It was the national recreation, getting drunk when the sun went down.
A distinguished old man in evening clothes that had gone out of fashion in the era of the flappers sat himself down at the far end of the bar. He was alone in white tie and tails direct from the theatre or a concert. The old man, Tina noticed trying not to look at him, had a glass eye.
A few minutes later a much younger woman came out of the powder room and sat with the old man. The girl’s looks had faded. The dress she wore was also old-fashioned. She was definitely not the old man’s paramour. They were familiar and comfortable with each other. More like old friends who had used each other to go to the theatre, something they could not do on their own. The man to Tina had been in the military by the look of his bearing. His back was straight, his presence quiet while the one good eye was directed at the piano player. The woman was also looking at the band.
The one good eye was boring into the back of Christopher Marlowe’s head, making Christopher look round and hit a false series of notes. Used to the mistakes, Harvey Lyttleton sang louder to let Christopher look for the right sounds. Even Clara stopped on her way between tables in alarm, looking quickly at the piano player… Tina smiled. Tina thought it nice to be a famous musician and still make a mistake. Only when Tina saw Clara look from Christopher to the old man at the bar did she realise something was wrong. That the false notes had come from the gimlet-eyed look of the old man.
To add to the strange moment in time, Brett appeared at Tina’s elbow.
One minute she had been singing with the band, the next she was standing next to Tina looking sarcastically at Barnaby who was somehow looking sheepish under Brett Kentrich’s glare.
“Well, this is nice. On my way to placate Uncle Wallace who do I find?”
“Did you get my letter, darling? Such a shame. Harry was always bad at things like that. He never expected to die or I am sure he would have put your name on the leasehold. Of course, I don’t mind. You were his mistress after all. It’s just the government.”
“It’s better than losing everything. So sorry. Anyway, Barnaby is still rich.”
“Oh, I forgot. You also had a brief affair with Barnaby.”
“Better than giving birth to his bastard son. Poor Harry.”
“That’s enough,” said Barnaby. “Not in public.”
The two women smiled thinly at each other. Despite Harry being dead, they were still competitors. To Tina, the bitch coming back in Brett was a relief. The one thing Tina would have hated was Brett Kentrich being happy.
“Christopher and I are going to have a baby. Tonight is my last night singing in public. You must stay and have the lovely food. Christopher I know would love to talk to Barnaby between sets. Sweet Moments of Life is doing so well. You should be pleased, Barnaby. But then you always did have the Midas touch.”
“You mean you are not going back on the stage?”
“Not with a family.”
“You can’t all live in an attic?”
“Of course not, darling. Christopher is rich. We can do what we like. We were going to give up the flat anyway. The attic is pure nostalgia. Where it all started for Christopher. We are making a new start to our lives.”
Tina watched her adversary walk down the bar to Uncle Wallace, who stood up from his stool at the bar. Tina understood. Harry was dead. They were both making new starts in their lives. The world was full of false starts and cross purposes. She had her five children. That would have to be enough.
“What does this Uncle Wallace want?” asked Tina.
“The usual. Christopher to take over the firm. Or rather Barrington Madgwick to take over the firm.”
“I thought it was Barrie.”
“That was Christopher again. Changing his name.”
“And the woman with Uncle Wallace?”
“His secretary. She’s been in love with Ralph Madgwick for years. Rosie Prescott. Followed Ralph to America and back again. Uncle Wallace likes the theatre and so does she. Convenience… Poor old bugger wants to retire to the country. Some people have all the bad luck… She’s jealous of you.”
“Rosie Prescott?”
“Brett Kentrich. Poor old Harry. I miss him.”
“You mean that don’t you?”
“I’m not a very nice person, Tina. You of all people should know that. Harry saw clean through me. He was a friend. Not had many of those in my life… But you can’t have everything, now can you? You should know… Now may I go and see my son?… What’s he like?”
“You.”
“Poor chap. He’ll need a skin as thick as a rhinoceros.”
Uncle Wallace had watched Brett join Tina Brigandshaw and Barnaby St Clair at the bar. He knew exactly who they were. Rosie Prescott had told him when she sat down at the bar. All the young people seemed to know each other. Madgwick and Madgwick was collapsing. Uncle Wallace had come to Clara’s from seeing Sweet Moments of Life, which he had enjoyed for the third time. Secretly he was proud of the nephew who liked to call himself Christopher Marlowe.
Uncle Wallace liked to say his worst enemies did him the biggest favours. Like the Germans knocking out his left eye, sending him back to England before they killed him. The stock market crash, though not a person, had done the same thing. At last, he was free from family obligations. He could go live in the country the last years of his life. Hunt, shoot and fish to his heart’s content.
“What are you going to do, Rosie? The American company will stay afloat under Sir Jacob Rosenzweig. We’ll lose our shareholding and they will change the name of the New York company but there will still be a job. Not like the new owners in England who don’t want our staff. Only our clients.”
“Not without Ralph.”
“You still love that stupid nephew of mine after all he has done?”
“Because of what he did. He loves her. She loves him. Why should religion get in their way?… Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t see straight when it comes to Ralph.”
“Ever thought of being a housekeeper in the country?… Can you ride a horse?”
“Even some of us who choose to live in London can ride a horse. But not to hounds. I find the idea of chasing a poor defenceless fox appalling.”
“They are vermin. Kill the pheasants. Breed like rabbits if we don’t hunt them down. Anyway, that’s enough. Here comes his wife. She must think I’m here for a riot act on family responsibility… Ironical, really. All my years as senior partner after their father died was a waste of time… Why are so many things in life a waste of time, Rosie Prescott? Like the last war and the next one. And the next one… There’s always another war… Brett! How lovely you look. You know Miss Prescott from your wedding reception. Fine wedding. Fine old Norman church, St Giles. Backbone of England. When that nephew of mine has finished tinkling the ivories tell him I have something to say to him. He doesn’t have to be frightened. Fact is, Barrington will have a good laugh. Saw his show again tonight. Good, but not as good as it would have been with you in the lead, Miss Kentrich. No, indeed. Have a drink. Fact is, when you all hear what I have to say we’ll have a good few drinks… Did I hear you say to those people you were going to give up the stage? Oh, congratulations. I may have one eye but I have two ears and both are very good. Have your children but stay on the stage. London would miss you. You would miss the stage. I’m sure Barrington is writing a new show just for you, Brett… He really is a lousy piano player… Did you hear all those false notes when he saw me sitting at the bar?… Poor Ralph. Gave him a hard time and now he’s staying out in Africa. His mother tells me he’s going to grow tobacco and build himself his own farm… She’ll be all right. Not all her money was in the firm. Lately, she has lived quietly, my sister-in-law.”
“What are you talking about, Uncle Wallace?” asked Brett expecting trouble.
“Madgwick and Madgwick are going out of business.”
Even as Tina and Barnaby opened the door to leave Clara’s, they heard Brett’s peal of laughter.
Then they found a taxi to take them to see their son.
Christopher Marlowe knew his days of playing the bohemian were over. When Uncle Wallace told him between sets that Madgwick and Madgwick were going out of business, the company’s bad debts equalling the firm’s assets causing the fire sale, the irony was not lost on him. Brett had told him that morning she was pregnant. The responsibility he owed to one family was being replaced by another. Being a father would change everything he did in his life. After Tina’s letter saying the flat still belonged to her as Harry’s widow, they moved back into the attic. Christopher had kept on paying the attic rent out of nostalgia for an easy life without complications when Gert van Heerden returned to Africa to face his own responsibilities. For some reason, Brett had been happy to live in the attic to please him. Now he knew why. His wife, who had said she never wanted children, was consumed by the knowledge she was going to have a child of her own. Her euphoria was tangible. As the father, some of Brett’s new-found happiness flowed his way. As if he was terribly clever. Even Christopher knew most women changed at the thought of actually being pregnant. It was built into them or the species would never have survived. Like his own understanding that he now had to make a stable home and provide for his child. That too was in his human make-up. Nothing was really terribly clever in life. Everything they did was ordained by their own evolution from time immemorial. How they themselves had survived the fight for life to be born. Every child had to be nurtured before it could stand on its own two feet.
