The brigandshaw chronicl.., p.6
The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 6
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
They had packed their picnic in the attic in Christopher’s room off Shaftesbury Avenue before setting out for the train. The picnic basket was the only thing Christopher had ever stolen from the house where he was born.
Just before going to work on Saturday was the time to buy from the barrow boys who lined the Portobello Road touting their wares. Fruit and vegetables that were not going to last until Monday were sold off cheap on Saturday afternoons. Mostly the two of them lived off vegetable soup from a big pot for the rest of the week. A few bones and leftover vegetables made a grand meal every day. The big pot, boiled up on the one gas ring next to the gas fire kept them healthy. The snag was the pervading smell of boiled cabbage. Sometimes they managed to sweep up fresh herbs with the leeks and turnips. They called the concoction Royal Soup fit for a king.
Gert van Heerden was an inveterate optimist. One day he was going to stage-manage a grand show. To Gert, the idea of the grand show was more important than the money. If Clara needed extra kitchen staff when someone went sick, Christopher took Gert to the supper club. It paid the rent on the box room and chipped in for the vegetables. Like Christopher’s father, Gert’s was very rich.
The family lived near Stellenbosch in the Cape of Good Hope in a beautiful Cape Dutch farmhouse that had been in the van Heerden family for ten generations. Gert had attended Stellenbosch University where he studied literature in Afrikaans. There were some beautiful Afrikaans writers, he told his English-speaking friends. Herman Charles Bosman was a classic. All his characters were so real they walked out of the pages. The theatre came with the books. Gert would like to have written plays. He had tried many times and failed. He could picture the set as clear as anything but could never tell a story. Most of his writing was devoted to describing the sets. He went to all the plays put on in Cape Town, hanging around backstage after the shows. He was stage-struck by the sets. On one show, they asked him to help.
The show was out from England touring the colonies. Cape Town was the last leg. When the company went back to England Gert tagged along, forgetting to go back to university. His father had given Gert an allowance for his last year at Stellenbosch which paid for his ticket. He wrote to his father from London.
His father wrote back saying an education could be found in many places, and that now Gert was working for a living he did not require an allowance. Nearly all the van Heerden family wished him happiness. There were many van Heerdens. One or two more or less made little difference. The grape harvest had been good on the farm that year. All was well in the valley. The mountain was still beautiful. They all looked forward to seeing him again when he came home. Only Uncle Johan mentioned the Anglo-Boer War. He had cursed Gert for living with the enemy. Uncle Johan had been drunk at ten o’clock in the morning and none of the family had taken any notice.
Gert was twenty years old the previous March when he moved into the box room next to Christopher Marlowe. They had become good friends. The one thing Gert van Heerden was best at was being happy. Whatever he did amused him. In everyone he met, he found something to like. When he was freezing cold in the box room, he thought of the sun and how nice it would be to be warm again. All the girls wanted to mother him. When he staged his first show, he was going to find a larger room. Even that was not an overwhelming matter. Once he was asleep, his dreams took him far away. To Africa. To his room on the second floor in the barn-like family home. The room with a view of the duck pond. The blue hills far away. The blue sky puffed with white clouds. The smell of wattle drifting into his room of the morning, the window open… Asleep in the box room he could see all these things. Three pairs of socks and sleeping in his overcoat in the first months took him into summer and the trips with Christopher Marlowe down to Ashtead Woods and the picnic under the oaks.
The picnic basket was as grand as anything Gert had ever seen. A large wicker basket with little straps inside to hold the plastic cups and saucers, plates, the two large thermos flasks, the glasses for wine, the knives and forks, the salad spoons. They took it in turn, every two hundred yards, to carry the grand prize onto the train and into the woods.
“Luncheon is served,” was the ritual phrase, always spoken by Christopher Marlowe. Then they set to on the hard-boiled eggs, cracking open the shells, making the egg sandwiches.
It had been a perfect day. They had eaten every morsel of food, drunk every drop of tea, and it was time to go home. Neither had spoken for a long time. Reluctantly they got up from the moss floor beneath the oak tree. The picnic basket was packed. Light to carry. Trees, brambles, bracken turning brown. The sound of silence.
“If we don’t go now we will miss our train.”
“The countryside of England is beautiful,” said Gert.
“Come on. You can carry the basket onto the train.”
“The bird calls are different. Strange for me to hear a bird and not know its name.”
They walked the narrow path out of the woods. On the bridge over the railway lines, Christopher Marlowe stopped. A woman was standing on the platform.
“Oh dear,” said Christopher.
“Barrington! Come down immediately.”
“I say. That woman seems to be calling us,” said Gert.
“Barrington!”
“It’s my mother.”
His mother was wearing a small green hat with a long green feather. She was dressed for church. Evensong had been over for an hour. Christopher could hear the train coming up from Leatherhead. Something had to be wrong.
Squaring his shoulders and forcing a smile, Christopher led the way down the iron stairs. He could see the white smoke from the locomotive. He could hear his hobnailed boots on the iron steps. The light would fade in an hour.
When they reached the platform, the train was pulling in. No one was getting on or off. The train was returning with weekenders who had gone to the sea. Standing between the slowing carriages and his mother, he could see the few passengers on the train were tired. Some were asleep. A few looked out of the windows at Ashtead station with little interest. The iron wheels on the iron rail squeaked and ground to a halt.
“Hello, Mother. This is my friend Gert van Heerden. He’s from South Africa.”
“That’s my picnic basket.”
“May I keep it, Mother? We went for a picnic in the woods. How did you know I’d be here?”
“The stationmaster told me at the beginning of summer. Your hair is far too long and that beret looks ridiculous.”
“I live a different life.”
“Not anymore.”
“What’s the matter, Mother?”
“Your father is dying.”
The guard blew the whistle. Christopher had the carriage door open. Gert climbed in with the picnic basket. The locomotive puffed impatiently.
“I have to go. This is the last train up to London.”
“Come home, Barrington.”
“Christopher!” said Gert. “The train is beginning to move.”
“Why does he call you Christopher?”
“Where is Father?”
“At home. He wants to see you. Ralph is somewhere in Africa. Please, Barrington. I’m begging you. He’s not as hard as he sounds. He’s your father.”
“How long?”
“A few months. It’s cancer, in his throat. He finds it difficult to speak.”
“I have a job. Commitments to people. You can call me at Clara’s if it gets worse. The famous place where I play piano.”
“You’re a piano player?”
“Yes, Mother… What does he want me to do?”
“Take over the business.”
“I know nothing about shipping.”
“You knew nothing about war. You have a good brain. You will learn the business in five years. Uncle Wallace can run the firm until you’re ready.”
“Uncle Wallace is a fool. He is also a drunk. Goodbye, Mother.”
“Will you come to us, Barrington?”
“Of course.”
They were still looking at each other, mother and son, as the train pulled out of Ashtead station. Only when his mother was out of sight did Christopher slump back into the long carriage seat. There was no one else in their compartment. Christopher felt a lot older than his thirty years.
3
June 1924 – Clara’s Supper Club
The Honourable Merlin St Clair, Barnaby’s older brother, put down the Times of London on the breakfast table in the bay window of his flat in Park Lane. According to the paper, the German mark was now worthless after the French marched into the Ruhr to extract coal and timber as war retribution. Ordinary people in Germany were jobless and penniless, he read.
“Will we ever learn?” Merlin said aloud to himself as he stood up and walked to look out of the window.
Hyde Park was green, the long winter having given way to a pale summer. On the other side of Park Lane, people were walking in the park taking their constitutionals. The sun came out briefly. The windows were open onto the Sunday traffic. Merlin thought it was going to rain. As usual.
Turning back to the round breakfast table, Merlin read the article a second time. It was small. On the third page. As if Germany was no longer of consequence. An ex-corporal of the German army was said to be rabble-rousing. Haranguing the destitute crowds. Telling them what they wanted to hear. That blood did not come out of a stone… Merlin had put down the paper again and was letting his own mind ramble, adding to the brief story in the paper. Giving it flesh. Seeing the human consequence. The suffering. A man with nothing had to steal. To feed his family. To fight was the basic instinct in man’s survival.
Smithers, his man of many years, came into the lounge. Merlin had sat down to breakfast at exactly nine o’clock. Bacon, eggs, one sausage, one kidney, one spoonful of kedgeree. Always exactly the same every day of his life. A man of regular habit. A confirmed bachelor of forty years, well content with his lot in life.
As a young man before war broke out, he had made his fortune buying armament shares. He had fought through the war without a scratch and never had to work another day in his life. The guns, made by Vickers to kill, had made him rich.
“There’s going to be another war, Smithers.”
“With who, sir?”
“The Germans.”
“Surely not, sir.”
“Mark my words.”
“I surely will, sir… Are you out to lunch, sir?”
“And dinner.”
“Very well, sir.”
Without further words, Smithers cleared the breakfast table and left the room.
Merlin stood again in the bay window and stared down into the park. He had too much time to think. To brood… Putting Corporal Hitler’s name out of his mind, he thought of his daughter. He was going to have lunch with his mistress and his daughter. Over in Chelsea. For dinner, he was going to the club… The perfect Sunday.
With his mind clear of ugly thoughts, he smiled down at the people in the park, mentally wishing them all a very good morning. He was about to turn and start his day when Harry Brigandshaw walked across the road towards the grand entrance to Merlin’s block of flats. With him was his wife who had once been Tina Pringle.
“What on earth is Harry doing in England?” He had spoken louder than his habit.
“You called me, sir?”
“Better make a large pot of tea. Harry Brigandshaw and his wife. You remember his wife. She was Tina Pringle in those days… Oh, don’t be silly, Smithers. None of that look. I got over my infatuation with Miss Pringle before anything went wrong. I wonder if Barnaby knows she’s in town?”
“I hope not, sir.”
“So do I.”
“I’ll go and make the tea. Mr Harry knows his way up in the lift.”
“You’d better go down to the foyer. The new man on the door won’t recognise Mr Brigandshaw… Now, this is a pleasant surprise.”
“As you wish, sir.”
They had been friends for many years. The good memories were coming back as he waited, hands behind his back as he stared across at the park, seeing none of it, only the memories in his mind. They had been good times. All of them before Lucinda had been killed. Harry had been up at Oxford with Robert, the brother between himself and Barnaby. Robert had brought Harry down to Purbeck Manor in 1907. It was at Purbeck Manor that Harry learnt his father was killed by an elephant and had gone straight back to Africa… The memories flooded in… Harry meeting their sister, Lucinda. She must have been no more than fifteen… Elephant Walk. Yes, he remembered Elephant Walk. Sailing out to Africa on the SS King Emperor with Harry and the rest of them… A cold shaft of pain cut through his chest at the memory of Lucinda’s murder at the end of what had been such a pleasant journey. They had just been married, she and Harry. The man coming up in the lift had briefly been his brother-in-law.
Merlin could hear his front door being opened from the outside by Smithers using the latchkey. He turned from looking out of the window as they came into the room. She was just as beautiful. She and Harry were smiling. Smithers closed the lounge door to go out and make the tea.
“Congratulations upon your marriage,” said Merlin, not able to keep his eyes off Tina. Once, long ago it seemed to Merlin, they had driven down into the country for lunch at the Running Horses at Mickleham. He and Tina.
“And our son,” said Tina, giving him a look. The look, Merlin thought, was even a trifle smug.
“A son!” He wanted to ask how old. When they were married? That bitch!
“We called him Anthony. He’s a year old.”
“Congratulations, Harry. My word… How good to see you. Mother and Father will so look forward to a visit. Robert is quite the famous author now. His books let him walk where the loss of his foot won’t let him travel… Oh, goodness. I’m gabbling. So good to see you.” She was looking at him with a quizzical stare, enjoying his embarrassment.
“You really think Lord and Lady St Clair will receive Tina Pringle through the front door?” she asked Merlin sweetly. Her father lived in a railway cottage not far from the St Clair estate. Tina herself had been born in the cottage, socially as far away from Lady St Clair as the moon.
“Of course, Tina. They have known you all your life. Barnaby brought you into the Manor when you were five years old.”
“Children from very different backgrounds are acceptable, Merlin. Up to a certain age. Seven or eight. How’s Barnaby?”
“Richer, I rather think. He has a magnificent townhouse in Piccadilly, opposite Green Park. Four storeys… Does he know?…”
“Better not tell Barnaby,” said Tina. “Not on purpose… We are going down to Dorset with Anthony. My parents want to meet their grandson.”
“Maybe Harry can slip away to see my parents. Robert will insist. Harry, you and Robert were up at Oxford. Wasn’t it through you he found his American publisher?”
“Always the diplomat, Merlin… Am I wrong or is the iris of that left eye of yours darker than the last time we met? The right more piercing blue. You haven’t done the trick of wearing your monocle and peering at us through your dark eye, trying to look sinister.”
“The left eye is coal-black. Like my… Ah, Smithers, how’d you make a pot of tea so quickly?”
“Keep the kettle on the hob, sir. Gently boiling.”
“Splendid. Put the tea tray down.”
“Like who, Merlin?” said Harry sweetly. It was his turn to dig up the English class system that made him laugh so often. In Africa, an Englishman was an Englishman whatever his social background.
“No one you know,” said Merlin.
Harry was smiling at him gently. Harry, Merlin thought, knows about Genevieve. About his daughter born to his mistress, with whom he was lunching at twelve o’clock.
“We’ve known each other a long time, old friend,” said Harry. “Congratulations.”
“I’ll pour the tea, thank you, Smithers,” said Tina, enjoying watching the game. Everyone knew about Merlin’s daughter. Even the fact she had two different coloured eyes like her father.
“Thank you, madam,” said Smithers equally aware of what was in play.
“Come and sit down,” said Merlin. “Both of you. I want to hear everything… Smithers! One more thing, cancel my appointment for today. This man spends too much time in Africa. We will lunch together.”
“Not today thank you, Merlin,” said Harry.
“Dinner tomorrow night, maybe?… You’ll be my guest. It’s not easy to get a table at Clara’s. You do have time now for a cup of tea? I don’t get many welcome visitors calling off the street.”
They had come over to England from Southern Rhodesia by rail and ship. Harry had wanted to fly the Handley Page to Cape Town. Tina was quite happy to make the flight in an open cockpit. The problem had been Anthony who had been bad enough in the railway compartment and on board the ship. He couldn’t yet walk but could move at great speed on all fours.
“Next time we leave our son with my mother,” Harry had said.
“Nonsense, Harry. My parents want to see their grandson. Why can’t we live in London? We’re rich enough. Buy a country house for weekends. I love Elephant Walk but it’s so isolated… I haven’t told you but I’m pregnant again. The doctor in Cape Town confirmed. Can’t I have this one in England, Harry? We’re English, for heaven’s sake.”
Harry sighed inwardly. There was a price to pay for everything. Even his children.
“Africa is in my blood.”
“No, it’s not. Not a drop of it.”
“Are we arguing, Tina?”
“The way Tembo looks at us sometimes, I’m sure he wants the lot of us to go home and leave Africa alone.”
“Tembo is a loyal servant.”
“He hates us. For making him a servant. For us being what he can never become.”
“He’s far better off. Being a nomadic herdsman is no fun in a drought. Only now are the African people multiplying. Ninety per cent of the children never survived into adulthood before we gave them modern medicine.”
