Uncle Harry seemed to know the landlord well, which to Tinus was not surprising; Uncle Harry knew everyone well. Tinus shook the publican’s hand and followed his uncle into the empty bar where they found the promised fire. The small room smelt of beer.

  “This is where it all began for Merlin,” said Uncle Harry.

  “King Arthur’s Merlin?”

  “No, no. My brother-in-law, Merlin. Esther was the barmaid during the war when they fell in love. Your aunt Lucinda was Merlin’s sister. Well, you know that terrible story when your father died instead of me… I'm sorry. Not the subject for a day like today.”

  Tinus found tears coming to his eyes. The same man who had killed Aunt Lucinda on Salisbury Station had killed his father years later in the same place. Tembo had shot dead Mervyn Braithwaite on the platform with Tinus’s father lying dead on the ground, changing Tinus’s life forever.

  Uncle Harry went to the bar to order the drinks. When he came back with two pints of draught beer, Tinus had gained control of himself; poor Uncle Harry had lost his pregnant wife so why should he feel sorry for himself?

  “Esther is Genevieve’s mother. Merlin St Clair her father, though she does not carry his name. She’s the actress we are going to see on Saturday. I’m making sure she is going to be a big star. When you see her onstage, you will understand. I have a present for her on Saturday when we go backstage. A man I knew in the war that now runs a film studio in Elstree… A good friend of mine… Cheers, Tinus. Glad to have you in England.”

  “Cheers, Uncle Harry.”

  They both drank, Tinus pulling a face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s warm!”

  “My nephew’s from Africa,” Uncle Harry said to the barmaid who was giving Tinus the eye.

  “We drink it ice-cold in Rhodesia,” Tinus said to the girl. The girl looked not much older than himself.

  “Expect you do, luv… When in Rome… Where’s Rhodesia?”

  With Uncle Harry smiling, Tinus went up to the bar to explain… His day just couldn’t stop getting better.

  There were more people in the dining room when they went through to lunch. Back in the bar, Tinus had been torn between telling the barmaid all about Rhodesia and going back to Uncle Harry standing at the fire with a knowing smile on his face drinking his pint. The girl had seen his dilemma and gone off to wash glasses in the kitchen behind the bar. There was an open hatch through which she could see any new customers. She gave Tinus a last lascivious smile, which sent feelings rushing through his body he had only dreamed about in his sleep. His lifelong pursuit of women had just begun.

  “Just as I hoped,” said Uncle Harry when the landlord handed him the menu at the table. “This place is renowned for its jugged hare.”

  “How do they make it?” asked Tinus, happy to keep the conversation away from the girl in the bar.

  “Better I tell you when we’ve eaten… We’ll have a small bottle of red wine to go with the hare.”

  When the food came in large brown bowls, the smell made his mouth water. The waiter had taken off the lids. Inside was a rich sauce covering pieces of meat with round balls of something floating in the gravy. Uncle Harry never had a starter. He had told Tinus more than once it ruined his appetite for the main treat. On a side dish came the Brussels sprouts and boiled new potatoes, the potatoes sprinkled with fresh parsley. Two glasses of wine were poured, a toast drunk to their mutual health and then they tucked in.

  The taste of the food was as good as the smell. In deference, they ate in silence, both accepting a second helping from the earthen serving bowl brought to the table by the publican. By the time Tinus finished his lunch the beer and wine had gone to his head, another feeling that was going to stay with him through his life.

  “All right. How do they make it, Uncle Harry?”

  “First they shoot themselves a wild hare somewhere out in the fields. Then they bring it back and hang it up in the larder by its back legs with a silver cup at its mouth to catch the blood. They then close the door of the larder for a week or two until they find white maggots in the hare’s dead eyes. Then they cut it down, careful not to spill the congealed blood in the silver cup. With forced meatballs they cook the meat in red wine with a mix of herbs and spices for hour after hour, just keeping the pot bubbling. Right at the end, they throw in the congealed blood and stir to make the gravy. By the time they cook the hare the meat is basically rotten. The term is gamey, the most appetising taste on earth.”

  “I’m glad you told me when I’d finished.”

  “Thought you would be.”

  The three of them drove up to London on the Saturday morning. Aunty Tina was still bunged up with her cold and stayed behind with the children. It was to be the first time Tinus had been to the theatre. The day before, Tinus had landed the Tiger Moth without Uncle Harry touching the controls. John Woodall had been on the field to watch the perfect landing. Next week, with luck, Tinus was going solo, his pilot licence now within reach.

  “It’s coordination, young man. Some have it, some don’t. Are you by any chance good at sport?”

  “Not bad,” Tinus had said, grinning at John Woodall.

  The second lunch at the Running Horses would take place when John Woodall, the owner of the flying school, handed him his licence. The thought of going back to Cape Town on the boat after Christmas was far from Tinus’s mind.

  To test the theory of the jugged hare, he and Andre had shot themselves a brace of hare in the twenty-acre field behind Hastings Court. Mrs Craddock had hung them in the larder each with a silver cup strapped to their heads to catch the drips.

  They were to stay at the Savoy Hotel on the River Thames, an old haunt of Uncle Harry’s. By then Tinus was quite sure he was in love with the barmaid at the Running Horses who had given him his first sexually insinuating smile. Her name was Minnie, the most beautiful name for Tinus in the world.

  2

  When William Smythe arrived at the theatre that night, he was struck by the normalcy. After what he had been through for six months in Berlin, London reminded him of Rome before it burned to the ground while Nero played his fiddle.

  As they passed through the foyer, no one in the crowd had a care in the world. All Will overheard was trivia.

  It had taken some persuasion for Janet Bray to come along with Horatio Wakefield. The girl had some absurd idea Genevieve was a threat.

  Will’s face had recovered enough from the beating for him to go out in public; the swelling had gone, leaving the area around his eyes discoloured.

  It was the first time he was going to see Genevieve since his Berlin assignment. To Will’s surprise, there to the right of him was Harry Brigandshaw looking the man-about-town, not the yellow-faced half-dead corpse he had been two years earlier when Will found him in the hospital.

  With Harry Brigandshaw were two tall young men, equally confident with themselves. One of them had the same look as Harry and had to be a relative but not a son. The last interview with Brigandshaw had been a year earlier at Hastings Court with a pack of children screaming round the house, none of them old enough to be standing in the foyer of the theatre dressed in a dinner jacket. The young man talking animatedly to Harry Brigandshaw had to be the nephew from Rhodesia, the one whose father had been killed by Brigandshaw’s commanding officer in the Royal Flying Corps after the war; the one who had gone mad and kept on killing, the man they had put into an institution, the state blaming the war for his mental condition. The thin difference between hero and killer made Will shudder.

  Just as Will was turning to follow Horatio and Janet into the auditorium, Harry Brigandshaw recognised him through the crowd, mouthing a big hello followed by what looked like the words ‘after the show’ repeated twice and pointing with his hand where to go. Will mouthed the word ‘backstage’, getting back a smile. Of course, Brigandshaw had financed the show.

  Feeling his stomach flip, Will followed the others through the open doors into the lighted auditorium. The second bell had gone. As they found their seats and sat down the house lights dimmed and the audience went quiet with anticipation. Not only was Will going to see Genevieve up on the stage, he now had an excuse to see her face to face. A face that had stayed in his mind all the long months in the cold room over the bicycle shop, watching and writing his story of Adolf Hitler’s rise to power alongside the rise of militant Germany. To want a woman so much, he told himself hugging his sides with pent-up expectation, had to be called an obsession. The one thing he coveted as much as money in his life was the girl who called herself Genevieve. Just Genevieve.

  Sitting between the two friends, Janet Bray’s reluctance had nothing to do with the girl on the stage. Janet had enough confidence in herself to know Genevieve was not a threat. What was churning up her stomach was a conversation she had overheard between Horatio and Will while she was making the supper earlier that evening in the small flat the two men were again sharing in Notting Hill Gate.

  Will wanted Horatio to go with him back to Germany so Horatio could make some money. Some real money, so she and Horatio could afford to get married. Up to that point, Will’s smashed-up face had had nothing to do with her.

  “I’ve talked to Reuters and they agree, Horatio. Two of us will have a better chance of looking out for each other. Anyway, I was out there six months and only got bashed up once. They are going to get me an American passport and I’m going to talk American, an accent even easier to fall into than the Irish. No one will suspect Brad Sikorski to be William Smythe. They don’t have a photograph of me.”

  “You hope.”

  “Even then they’ll be looking for one man on his own answering to my description. You’ll make more money than Janet in a year and make yourself famous.”

  “That’s the point, Will, you made yourself famous and now look at your face.”

  “The byline will be Horatio Wakefield. By the time we get out you’ll be a famous foreign correspondent writing your own ticket wherever you go.”

  “You want to use my name because you can’t use your own.”

  “I want to make you famous, Horatio. As a hack, you’ve gone nowhere. Glass treats you like a lackey. You’d eat his shit if he told you to.”

  “That’s vulgar. I do what my editor tells me because that is my job.”

  “Then get another one. That pays better. That gives you a chance to get on in life. You’re in a rut, my old friend. And it’s getting deeper.”

  “I have a secure job. Many people in this depression don’t have jobs. By the way, while you’re here you’re paying half the rent like in the old days. I can’t afford to be an altruist.”

  “That’s my point. For God’s sake, you have to take risks in this life or you get nowhere. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in this flat hiring out the couch? Just think about it.”

  “I’ll think about it. Don’t tell Janet.”

  “Don’t tell me what?” she had said brightly, bringing in the pot of stew having heard every word of the conversation.

  After that, the last thing she had wished to do was go to the theatre and watch some trite comedy. There was nothing worth seeing in the theatre anyway. She had read all the critics. The current plays were either medieval and miserable or light and fluffy. Anything to keep people’s minds off what was going on to the east of them in Russia, where they had shot all the aristocrats and intellectuals, or in Germany, where they hated the Jews and anyone else who did not look Aryan. And poor Horatio thought her reluctance was not wishing him to see Genevieve, the least serious problem she had in the world.

  Sitting back in her seat, not hearing the words spoken in the play, a world full of darkness began passing through her mind, a world where once again the human race was gone mad, the evil that men did living after them, not interred with their bones; Janet went on thinking of Shakespeare, of Brutus, Mark Antony and Julius Caesar.

  After ten minutes, she sniffed and blew her nose, getting a funny sideways look from Horatio.

  ‘The man still thinks it’s Genevieve,’ she said to herself.

  The audience laughed brightly and brought Janet’s mind back into the theatre. Soon she laughed herself. Then the play took hold; not as bad as she thought. By the time the lights came up for the intermission she was enjoying herself, Horatio’s hand firmly held in her own; in life Janet knew it was always better to laugh than cry. If there was going to be a war, Horatio at thirty would be too old to go into the army to fight.

  Oscar Fleming, sitting by invitation between Harry Brigandshaw and Louis Casimir from the Elstree Studio, decided he felt nothing anymore. Even the last lust of his life up on the stage was having no effect. He was old, jaded and bored. It was time to give up the theatre, go live in the country and breed dogs. Maybe write his memoirs. Maybe not. The girl was good, carrying the play as she had done the first one written by Freya St Clair. No one was making money in the theatre. Well, he smiled to himself, she had got her way without having to seduce him in bed. She was a rising star who had stepped on his head.

  Oscar yawned, quickly putting his hand over his face, hoping the film man had not seen his boredom. This was his last favour for Harry Brigandshaw, then it was over, the thought passing through his mind: ‘what did I see in all those giggling girls in pursuit of worthless fame?’ He had never married which was probably just as well. It was better to keep his cynicism all to himself.

  Only when the final curtain had fallen and the house lights came up did his mood lighten.

  “You’ll love her,” he said to Louis Casimir. “She’ll make a great star of the silver screen, Louis. Now, let’s go meet her. Are the young men coming with us, Harry?”

  “Of course. Then I am taking everyone out to a supper club. The chap who was beaten up by Hitler’s Brownshirts is in the audience. He’s joining us with his party backstage.”

  “It can’t be as bad as it sounds,” said Louis Casimir.

  “Better ask him.”

  When Tinus trooped in behind the others the dressing room was full of flowers and people. Their various scents mingled with the stage make-up the star was wiping with a towel from her face, a face that Tinus watched in the mirror with the same fascination he had watched on the stage. For a brief flash, their eyes met as they recognised each other, two teenagers trying to be grown-ups.

  Everyone was in evening dress, including Genevieve from her part in the play. For the first time that night Tinus felt awkward and gauche; standing at the back not knowing what to do, he felt like the farm boy from the African bush he was, not the flyer who ate in restaurants. With everyone concentrated on the star, he and Andre were left out of it. Tinus’s new dinner jacket made him feel ridiculous.

  Uncle Harry had been swallowed up by the crowd along with the two sophisticates who had sat with them in the theatre. Searching through the gaps in the moving backs of people, Tinus occasionally saw Uncle Harry talking animatedly with the man who looked as though his face had recently taken a severe beating, something Tinus had seen before at Bishops when one of the boys was beaten badly in the boxing ring for being a queer.

  “She’s much younger than she looks, Andre. About our age,” he said.

  “Can’t be, old boy. The woman was married in the play. Anyway, how would you know?”

  “She looked at me in the mirror. How long will this go on? I’m starving. The film man’s met her now. Isn’t that enough?”

  “This is the way to live. Theatre. Backstage. Supper clubs. London is the centre of the world. Be patient, Tinus. You’ll eat soon enough. Your uncle wants to invite her to join us. Now this is going to be a party. Film directors, impresarios, famous men from the newspapers, actresses. It won’t get better than this, Tinus.”

  Talent scouting was not his job. It was not even Harry Brigandshaw’s money that had persuaded Louis Casimir to take a look at Genevieve; there were rich men right across London trying to impress young girls with their connections so they could take the poor creatures to bed. The approach, as Louis put it, had come from Oscar Fleming, which made better sense; the man had a reputation with young girls.

  “She’s ambitious, Louis. I’ll give her that.”

  “Oscar, she’s not one of yours?”

  “Of course not. I’m sixty years old.”

  “But you tried?”

  “A reflex action.”

  “In Who’s Who, they say you’re a bit older than sixty.”

  “Who on earth reads Who’s Who! Vulgar. I never gave them an interview. Just do it for Harry. You two fought in the war together. Doesn’t all this nonsense in Germany get you frightened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. You’re hiding being Jewish like I’m hiding my age.”

  “There’s going to be another war or Hitler will exterminate the world’s Jews.”

  To each other, they both looked scared.

  “Will you come to the theatre and see her on Saturday, Louis? Frankly, I think she’s worth looking at but make up your own mind. She has that something which if it comes across on the screen will have the male population howling for more.”

  “So you did have something more in mind for this Genevieve?”

  “There’s no fool like an old fool, Louis. She ran rings round me.”

  “How is Harry after his ordeal in the Congo?”

  “Knocked the stuffing out of him, if you want my opinion. Either that or we are all getting old.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “You chaps will never have any trouble in England.”

  “I know that. Why grandfather came to England from Hungary. I’m going to America. Did I tell you that? Hollywood is the place to be.”

  “To live?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So you are frightened of Hitler?”

  “So would you be if you were Jewish… Now what’s the matter?”

  “We all have our secrets. My ancestors came from Russia.”

 

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