The brigandshaw chronicl.., p.78
The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 78
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“There’s going to be a war.”
“There always is. Right through history. Now answer the bloody phone.”
Half an hour later, and with the certainty that there was no fool like an old fool, William rang the doorbell of Merlin St Clair’s flat having navigated Hughes the doorman downstairs in the foyer before being allowed into the lift. Smithers opened the door with a smirk on his face; in his experience servants, like mothers, always knew what was going on. The look told William clearly he was going nowhere with Genevieve.
For a moment, he thought of turning away from the open front door and going off with his tail between his legs. Then she appeared just behind Smithers’s shoulder looking more radiant than ever and sent his mind into panic. He had been right after all; she was the most exciting woman he had ever seen.
“Hello, Will. Won’t you come in? What’s the matter?”
“Janet had a baby. I’m the godfather with Harry Brigandshaw. They called him Harry, of course,” said William to cover his nerves.
“Good for her. How’s Horatio taking it? Are you here to give me an interview so you can syndicate it round the world? You could if you wanted to. Why is it famous people never realise they are famous? Come in and stop dithering. You remind me of Louis Casimir my esteemed producer, now known by the Anglican name of Gerry Hollingsworth. The only thing he didn’t do was have himself christened. Are you up to the job of godfather with your reputation? You will be expected to put the poor child on the straight and narrow.”
“I’d love to try an interview if it would help your career. I go to Warsaw on Thursday. The Poles are worried Hitler wants to annex Poland with its large German population.”
“I’m sure you can fit in a teeny-weeny story about Genevieve before you go. Why don’t we go out to dinner tonight? Just the two of us. Seeing old friends after America is special.”
“Didn’t you like America?”
“Of course. I just like England better. Have a cup of tea. Do you know in America they make tea straight into the cup? Disgusting. Tastes revolting. William! What on earth is the matter with you, are you coming in or not? My father isn’t here if that’s what you’re worried about.”
The invitation for William to visit Warsaw had come through old Isaac, the Jew who had forged his American passport in the name of Brad Sikorski and sent him back to Berlin on the ill-fated mission that saw Horatio beaten up and imprisoned in the farmhouse by Hitler’s Brownshirts. The message was from the same Fritz Wendel William had presumed dead, having received no further contact from his Jewish informant who had given him so much story on both his visits to Berlin in 1933.
According to old Isaac, the Jewish network that stretched across Europe from Moscow to London wanted William to make the world aware of Germany’s intent to incorporate the ethnic Germans living in Poland into a greater Germany, the way Bismarck had forged the Principalities of Germany into one state during the previous century. Everything Hitler did, according to old Isaac, was aimed at building up German patriotism to give the Germans back their pride after their defeat in 1918. German East and West Africa had been ceded to Britain by the League of Nations, the first conquests of Germany in an attempt to compete with the British Empire in the previous century. William said more than once in his syndicated articles that empire was the real reason for the Great War, not some Austro-Hungarian being assassinated by a Serb in Bosnia that finally set the Great War in terrible motion.
William thought he was being used by the Jews but that did not matter to him when he knew it produced good copy; like most writers, a journalist was only as good as his last story. Everyone, wherever he looked in the world, had their own hidden agenda, their own reasons for outwitting someone else if the someone else was vulnerable; the British government called it diplomacy.
“Everyone is plain selfish, Genevieve, something they always try to hide. No one ever does anything for the good of the other person however much they make it look like they are doing him a favour. The Jews have a lot of money and want to keep it. The rest are trying to take it away from them. Some fools think we human animals have principles which sadly, like so many of the other things we were taught as kids, is a lie. I’m boring you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not. I got sick of small talk over dinner.”
“You’re not interested in me as a man, are you?”
“No I’m not.”
“And you never were?”
“No.”
“Now you’re going to talk about staying friends.”
“I need a good mind to make sense of life. Most people tell me what they think I want to hear.”
“You could have said you loved me.”
“And wasted your time. Why does sex always get in the way?”
“I won’t answer an obvious question, only to say without it none of us would be here in this restaurant. Do you want some more coffee?”
“I’d like to go home. My father said he would wait up. He’s never played father before. Never really had a life and now never will. Sometimes too much money can be a curse as it stops a person doing something with their life. I’d much rather go to Warsaw, to the real problem, than make believe in a film.”
“We all want what we can’t have. Just my problem. I can’t have you.”
“If you had me you’d get bored like Gregory L’Amour.”
“You slept with your leading man?”
“Makes a better film. Then I ditched him when he’d had enough. Now he can’t get me he wants me back again. What do you make of that?”
“I’m jealous. I will take you home.”
“Come and meet father.”
“Do you know, Genevieve, I’ve never been turned down like this before.”
“About time. William, I like men my own age. I thought we all married a few years either way of our age. You are in Uncle Barnaby’s generation, though it doesn’t stop him chasing the young girls. His latest is a violin player. Sadly for you, William, I am not like Celia.”
“Are you going to marry Tinus?”
“Of course I am. You were there the first night we met. We’re the same person.”
“And live in Africa?”
“That’s the bit he doesn’t know yet. I want to be a farmer’s wife. Live on Elephant Walk until Harry’s children are old enough to take over the farm. Then we’ll buy our own. I’m saving lots of money at the moment.”
“Be careful. Africa has its problems. Like the defeated Germans, the black man has his pride. Another war will likely shatter the empire if we ask the colonies to help us. The Indians may help but they’ll want their independence afterwards. The population explosion in Africa will drown the white man in a sea of black. All our good medicine and doctors are letting families have ten to fifteen surviving kids with the girls bearing children from the age of fourteen. You start multiplying a life from the age of fourteen a dozen times and a country drowns in people within fifty years. When they haven’t enough land to go round and feed themselves all hell breaks loose. No, not Africa, Genevieve.”
“Or Europe?”
“Go to America. There’s still lots of room in America and they all speak English, or most of them. And America is far enough away from all this nonsense.”
Later in his flat he had taken the year before on the Bayswater Road, William tried to take stock of his life and found it wanting. All the other women in his life had come and gone without him looking back at any of them with the slightest regret; the one for him was always still to come. Now the one for him was gone. Going back to his old habits had no appeal, the satisfaction too temporary, never fulfilment. He had even forgotten many of the girls’ names. Some had lasted a night, a few had trailed away into months with neither of them able to put a date on when the affair had ended.
The likelihood was he would end up his life without a family, without himself through his seed going on through the generations, whatever the future would bring. Without children he, William Smythe, would be dead forever, decomposed matter fertilising the ground, not living matter in the generations to come.
He was slightly drunk and morbid while sitting with a glass of whisky in his hand wondering whether any of it mattered; thirty-three years old, on his own in the middle of the night at the end of the road of life so far as he could see. The more he thought of her, the more it made him sick. He hoped the job in Warsaw would keep him out of London until she went back to America. If the film was a success they would want her back in Hollywood for another film.
William went to bed when the sun came up and the whisky bottle was empty. He had drunk himself sober. By then he had convinced himself he was going to spend the rest of his life on his own.
“Shut up!” he snarled at the pigeon outside the window on the ledge that was calling happily in the first light of the day. The bird ignored him and carried on calling over the slate rooftops to its mate.
“Maybe another war won’t be so bad after all,” he said to the bird. He put his head down again, intending to sleep through the day; being his own employer was always an advantage. There was not a soul in the world who cared a damn anyway whether he slept or cried. His small office in Fleet Street could do without him for a day, his motive for making money having drowned in rejection.
“Maybe,” he said to himself, “you did too much too soon, too early in life.”
That day the calls still came into the Park Lane flat, Smithers always answering the phone. By lunchtime Genevieve knew a mass interview in the park was out of the question. One of the callers was from the BBC looking to interview her on air. Others were now magazines, the people at her studio spreading their wings. The one call Genevieve did take was from Paul Dexter, Gerry Hollingsworth’s chief of publicity.
“Why aren’t you giving interviews, Genevieve? They’re driving me nuts. Do you know someone has let out of the bag your family ancestry? In the past the aristocracy married actresses, they did not breed them. Quite a turn-up for the book.”
“I can only wonder who opened the bag. My poor grandfather, and he wanted to come up from Dorset to the premiere.”
“That’s just wonderful. The papers will lap it up. I’ll tell them.”
“Haven’t you told them enough?”
“You think it was me?”
“Of course it was you, Paul. It’s your job. Didn’t you say ticket sales are in direct proportion to the number of times the film is mentioned in the media? The BBC for goodness sake told Smithers they want me to sing.”
“Who’s Smithers?”
“A gentleman’s gentleman. The only sane man I know on earth.”
“What does a gentleman’s gentleman do?”
“Looks after my father.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about but come into the studio. We are going to schedule interviews in Elstree before the whole damn thing spins out of control. My secretary can handle everything.”
“Not as well as Smithers. I’ll get myself a taxi.”
“That’s a good girl. Dress sexily. Robin Hood cost a fortune to make and the banker is breathing down Hollingsworth’s neck. You know, I still only think of him as Louis Casimir. The world’s a mess.”
By the time William met Fritz Wendel in the Jewish quarter of Warsaw, both William and Genevieve had better things to think about than their love-lives, which for both of them had come to a halt. Tinus was studying hard for his degree at Oxford. Gregory L’Amour was still in America. Neither of them were aware that Paul Dexter was about to announce their love affair to the world in much the same way he had headlined the sordid affair of a Lord’s son and a barmaid, leaving the girl with a bastard daughter without a name. Paul Dexter had flogged every last drop of publicity out of the aristocrat’s illegitimate granddaughter.
“Did you have to go this far, Mr Dexter?”
“It’s in your contract to give every help to our publicity campaign. How did your grandfather take it?” The man was positively gloating when Genevieve marched into his office demanding an explanation.
“He doesn't know. They don’t get the papers at Purbeck Manor. My grandmother stopped them being delivered at the start of the Great War. My father’s the problem now I’ve had to move out of his flat. They were waiting for him in Park Lane and all of them rude. They even joked about his monocle. Being embarrassed in public is my father’s worst nightmare. The papers have rubbed his nose in the dirt. Every one of them. Some old woman came by and hit him with her handbag for being a cad. Recognised his face from the papers. They literally push the camera in his face to make him react and look foolish. He won’t go out of the flat. Then they interviewed my mother who was drunk as usual. They can mangle anything to make a good story and sell newspapers. They act like rabid dogs some of them… Stop laughing. This is my family being torn to pieces. If Gerry Hollingsworth were here, I’d slap his damn face. He put you up to all of this. Just because I wouldn’t sleep with him, and that you can quote to the press. I wouldn’t fuck that bastard in a fit.”
“Calm down, Genevieve. There’s a price to everything. If you hadn’t agreed in writing the price with us for your next three pictures you could have made a fortune. Everyone in England wants to see Genevieve. You’re splashed all over the provincial papers as well. My word, what a job we have done. Even two of the New York papers have picked up on the story.”
“That was William Smythe.”
“Not the bastard story. That wasn’t in America. I’ve never seen Smythe so tame. Was he your lover?”
“No, but he loves me.”
“Poor fool.”
“We are all fools, Mr Dexter. I was a fool to trust you and Louis Casimir. One day the press will pick up on his pathetic story and give me a good laugh. Then his family can suffer like mine.”
“It’s all just part of the business. Publicity is our life-blood. Calm down! You have a long career ahead, Genevieve. This is just the beginning.”
“You own me, don’t you?”
“Yes we do. Let it run off like water from a duck’s back.”
“What about my father holed up in his flat?”
“It’ll blow over.”
“For the public, probably. For my father, never. We were just getting to really know each other. Now he wishes the Germans had killed him in the trenches before he dishonoured the family name… Where are you going?”
“To lunch. You are boring me. Like all women you are never satisfied. I suggest you grow up and look at the world. The world is about money. Never forget. Nothing else. Just money.”
“You’re a pathetic fool.”
“Don’t talk like that or I’ll get your contract cancelled.”
“Please do and when you’ve cancelled it, shove it up your arse.”
“You really can be a rude little bitch.”
“I get that from my mother. According to half the papers, she’s a whore and whores don’t behave like ladies. So if I had fucked Louis none of this would have happened?”
“None of it, Genevieve. He’d have dumped you after half a dozen fucks. Like the rest of them. Good-looking women are two a penny. The businessmen create the money. We make the star. We made you. So get off your high little horse while I’m having my lunch. Go home.” To Genevieve’s surprise Paul Dexter slammed his own door behind him as he went out.
“I don’t have a home,” she said to herself when the room was empty.
When she reached her mother’s flat in Chelsea there was no one waiting at the door. Not one single reporter. All stories had a short life. For the rest of London the excitement was already over.
“Come on in, ducky. Have a drink. Never seen such a right royal song and dance. So after all I’m coming to the premiere. A nice young man from your studio is having a dress made up for me. They’re going to tart me up good and proper. You see, my daughter, everything will turn out for the best. Life always does. A few years from now you and I will laugh our heads off at all the palaver.”
It was, as she told her mother later when she had recovered her sense of humour, a dirty business making films.
“Why don’t you sell the real inside story to one of the magazines? Say a friend leaked the story, ducks, if Mr bloody Dexter asks. Never get mad, get even and always put your money under the pillow for a rainy day. Make hay while the sun shines… Do you want me to go on? Have another bloody drink and drown your sorrows. Tomorrow’s another day.”
“You’re a good woman, Mum.”
“That’s better. One day the world will come to an end. Until then enjoy yourself and always make sure you’ve got money. What my mother said. You come out of this with money like I did with your father and you’ll be laughing all the way to the bank. It’s money what gives us what we want. Freedom. Love. A daughter dressed up and looking like a million dollars. As I always say, it’s better to be miserable and rich than miserable and poor. Better to be pissed off than pissed on.”
“Good grief, Mum. Where do you get them all from?”
“Get what?”
“The little sayings that always make sense.”
“I’ve no idea what you are talking about. The bloke in the boozer sent up a new case of gin. From his off sales. It’s under the kitchen table. Be a dear. The orange cordial’s in the bottle on the shelf.”
4
The Royal Air Force had taught Andre Cloete to fly an aeroplane in a week. Every evening after lectures Tinus and Andre had raced their Morgan sports cars to RAF Abingdon, an RAF aerodrome a few miles south of Oxford.
“It’s the same eye-hand coordination,” explained Squadron Leader Cunningham. “A chap who scores a hundred against Cambridge is likely to be a natural. You’ll make a good fighter pilot, Cloete. Congratulations on your first solo flight. Talk has it we’re getting some new aircraft in Fighter Command. You’ll have to go down south for that. Tangmere on the south coast will be the first station to get the Hurricane, according to rumour. Some say as soon as the end of the year. They did the test flights at Redhill where Oosthuizen learnt to fly with Colonel Brigandshaw. Now there was a fighter pilot. Twenty-three kills and not a scratch. Where do you chaps get your funny names from, by the way?”
