by Peter Rimmer
Twice he asked the lobby when the call was coming through, watching the phone for the rest of the time as he ate his supper, not noticing what he was eating. When the phone rang in the silence it made him jump.
“Mr L’Amour, you’re through.”
“Genevieve!”
“She’s somewhere in California, Greg. How are you, buddy?”
“Who’s that?”
“Gerry Hollingsworth, you idiot. Who do you think it is? By now you should know your producer’s voice. We want you back in New York for some reshoots. The editor doesn’t like three of the rushes.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“People who cost me your kind of money I keep an eye on. How’s the RAF, Greg?” His tone of voice that told Gregory that Hollingsworth already knew.
“They won’t let me join unless I have my great-grandfather’s birth certificate. He was English,” he added lamely.
“Too bad.”
“I’ve learnt to fly.”
“That’s my boy. We’ll put it in the papers.”
“Where’s Genevieve exactly?”
“I’m not going to tell you. But when you get back to New York after your gallant effort to help the British, she’ll be at the airport, guaranteed.”
“Along with the newspapers, I suppose.”
“You suppose right, lover boy. Get your pretty arse Stateside before she changes her mind. We want the premiere of Holy Knight in New York. You’ll be a sensation with all the attention in the papers. Sometimes it’s the thought that counts, Greg. The British will always love you. A real live hero. The all American Man.”
With realisation dawning, ‘the thought that counts’ echoed in Gregory’s mind.
“Did you do a magazine deal with Max Pearl?” he asked sarcastically.
“Of course. Not all of us have been taking flying lessons. Some of us do real work like making money. Bruno wants you to donate half your royalties to the British Red Cross as a gesture.”
“Oh, does he? I suppose all is good between him and his wife.”
“Never happier, Greg. Have a nice day. Your ticket home is in the lobby. Time and place on the ticket. I’ll give Genevieve your love.”
With the rest of his food going cold, Gregory stared at the silent telephone back on its hook.
“They’ve got me by the balls,” he said.
Then the feeling of relief set in, making Gregory sit down while his body and mind went limp. Money, he thought. Money always won in the end. The stunt was still on. Gerry Hollingsworth had somehow manipulated the whole damn lot of them. Then he went back to his cold dinner and finished his food. It was turbot in a white cream sauce. Suddenly the food was quite delicious.
“Hope the rabbit foot works, Tinus,” he said to the empty plate. “Poor bastard.”
As usual in his life, everything was once again out of his control. All the nonsense about Great-Grandfather Holt’s birth certificate had come from Gerry Hollingsworth and Max Pearl. They had all cooperated for the publicity. Including the British.
“Must have lobbied someone in the American Embassy. Who knows?”
Then he began to think of home and America, putting the Royal Air Force out of his mind, the face of Genevieve with the mismatched eyes swamping everything else in the room as he rejoined his world of unreality leaving it all in a state of trance.
7
Two weeks into November, with Gregory L’Amour safely back in America, again parted from Genevieve, Aircraftman Second Class Hemmings was receiving his first plate of egg and chips at RAF Cardington where he had been inducted that morning into the Royal Air Force, his blue battledress uniform making his midriff itch. Everyone eyed each other, no one saying much in the queue as everything was so new and unfamiliar to all of them, the present and the future.
“Where you from, mate?” Trevor asked the man next to him as they both accepted their plates from the cook serving with a long spoon from behind the counter.
The man spoken to looked at him, his eyes getting bigger.
“Blimey. A bloody Australian.”
They each took their plates, knives and forks to a long bench table, sat down and began to eat their food in silence.
“Chips with everything,” said the man still looking at his plate.
“What, mate?” said Trevor Hemmings.
“Chips with everything. What they serve up in the RAF. Bloke from home what joined up day war broke out said we got chips with everything. Forty-eight hour pass for finishing his square-bashing. Now he’s gone to learn his trade in radar. Why do they think we got to learn to march and hump a rifle? You going to Hednesford, Aussie?”
“Same as you, mate.”
“What’s your trade?”
“Flying aeroplanes.”
“Don’t they make you blokes officers?”
“No bloody idea. Just joined up today. Ran out of money, chips are bloody lovely. Trevor Hemmings. From Melbourne. Down under, you blokes like to say. You going to finish your chips? Mum says I got worms. Always hungry. Why I had to join up.”
“Why’d you come to England?”
“To join the RAF.”
“You don’t make bloody sense. Have the whole plate.”
“Thanks, mate. You’re a beaut. So here we are about to spend eight weeks at Hednesford, wherever that is, bashing the square, learning to be a soldier.”
“Why didn’t you tell ’em you fly? Sent you to flying school I’d think. Straight away. Papers always talking about us being short of pilots.”
“I was hungry. No, you got to start at the bottom. They’ll ask all of us at Hednesford if we want to apply for an Officer Cadet Training Unit. They all work the same, mate. The rules. Everything in triplicate. You’ll see. What’s your trade?”
“I’m going to be a cook. Better than these soggy chips.”
“Not even tomato sauce. In Oz we spread everything with tomato sauce. Eggs included. Good luck to you.”
“Been to England before?”
“Oh yes. On a holiday. Ran out of money then too. Bloody money. Went back to Dad’s shop.”
“What’s he sell?”
“He’s a chemist. White coat behind a counter, bit like you as a cook judging by the bugger with the long spoon. I hate working in a chemist. Can you pass the salt?”
Not for the first time in his life, as he looked around the canteen, Trevor wondered what he was doing. The war and getting on the boat had been more of an excuse than any show of patriotism. A way out of the rut and the boredom looming over the rest of his life. Getting his degree in pharmacology had been fun outside of the subject itself. Playing sport. Trying unsuccessfully to get into the pants of all the girls. Drinking beer. Going to the beach. Surfing the waves. Being young without a care in the world while Dad picked up the bills. Life as a student had seemed endless, the days flowing pleasantly along from one to the other. But it ended. Like all good things in life, he had told himself.
The six months’ holiday which had taken him to England the previous year once he had his degree had been a pleasant life until he went back to Melbourne to work for Dad, the money he earned serving in the shop in Collins Street in the vacs drunk to the last pint of beer.
By the time Australia joined England declaring war on Nazi Germany the long year serving in the shop had been enough to last him a lifetime. Dispensing drugs to old men and women was not his cup of tea. Only once in a while did a young, good-looking girl tinkle the small bell in the shop giving Trevor a brief ray of hope in his life.
To pay back Dad for putting him through Melbourne University he had agreed to work for three years, the same length of time it had taken to get his degree, at a small salary, living with mum and the girls at home and watching his younger brother Justin still enjoying his life at school.
Wisely, Trevor thought, young Justin had no pretensions. When he finished school Justin was going off to work on a sheep station in Queensland, make some money and bum around the world letting
the future take care of itself. Justin played the guitar and would be welcome in the outback where songs sung even by an amateur were at a premium. Justin was sixteen, the youngest of mum’s brood and seven years younger than Trevor. Very rarely did Justin go into the chemist shop and only when mum sent him on an errand.
“You won’t catch me trapped behind that counter, mate. You can shove that one. Ride a horse and play guitar, that’s me. You have the money, Trev. You’re welcome. I want to do something with my life. The whole Far East is just above us. Grandad might as well have stayed in England, you two cooped up in a shop in Collins Street. You’ll end up like Mum and Dad with six kids working the rest of your life to feed ’em. No ways. A big sheep station, that’s me. Everything’s paid for. Bunk and grub. What you earn you save. How much did Dad ever save? No bloody ways, mate. Out of school, then I’m off. See the back of my heels Justin. That’s going to be me!”
“There aren’t any young women in Northern Queensland, Justin.”
“Then I’ll have to fuck the sheep, won’t I?”
“You’re a crude little bastard.”
“You can say that again.”
The Dutch boat had taken Trevor from Melbourne to Perth in Western Australia before making its way up the coast into the Java Sea, calling at three ports in the Dutch East Indies before landing him in Singapore for three days where the ship loaded cargo for Europe, the hatches open night and day as the stevedores loaded the cargo into the hold. The top two decks of the ship were for passengers, all in one class, the deck area not big enough for a swimming pool.
In the humid heat, the voyage went on to Ceylon and the slow run up through the Suez Canal. There were no young girls on the boat, which made Trevor think more and more of Melbourne and the chemist shop in Collins Street. He could still see the look of sadness on his father’s face when he went. Not a word from his mum. They all knew the war in Europe was just an excuse. All the effort of putting him through university just money down the drain, their own lives mirrored in the bored eyes of their eldest son as he had gone to work from the clapboard family house in South Yarra that badly needed painting, the money for paint spent instead on their son’s education with nothing much to show.
They had all gone to the docks to wave him off, including all the girls. Trevor had thrown down streamers from the rail of the boat as the tugs pulled the vessel from the pier towards the harbour, Trevor going ever so slowly out of their lives. When the coloured streamers broke, that was it. The parting. What Trevor knew in his heart was the end of his life living with the family he had been in all of his life. His mum was crying, he could see that from the rail.
The girls had just thought it was fun going off overseas to war.
Within a few weeks of landing in England not sure what to do, Trevor had run out of money. The recruiting office was in Woking. No one really asked any questions. With the forms filled in they had given him a rail pass to Cardington, and the canteen where he found himself surrounded by Englishmen, all reticent, none of them talking, keeping whatever they wanted to say to themselves. A few looked furtive. A few looked sad. None of them appeared to be enjoying themselves.
“I’ll bet they’re doing better than this at Hastings Court,” he said under his breath to his empty plate.
The idea of bumming a weekend off Harry Brigandshaw a second time in his life had crossed his mind. By the time it did there wasn’t the money to go to Redhill and fly the Tiger Moth. People were happy to be taken advantage of once. Twice was bad manners. Justin would not have minded, Trevor supposed, his new uniform itching under the belt. There was no point in crying over spilt milk. He had made a mistake. Sitting on the bench all alone surrounded by people, Trevor wanted nothing else but his job in the shop dispensing drugs to old men and women, hoping for a pretty girl to ring the bell as she opened the door, Trevor smiling his welcome, straightening his back, waiting to fly a quip.
Then in his mind he walked up and down Darling Street, most of the homes in the long street lived in by friends he had known all his life, the small gardens tended, words tossed over the fence, the place that had always been his home. Day trips to Frankston on the train to walk the dunes down the coast, swim in the sea, throw out a line, the fish mattering little, the friendliness and beauty of the place more important than the catch.
To Ginty’s parents in the big house for tea, a real tea so a boy could stuff himself, make the cook feel proud. Sometimes staying over in a home he could only dream of for himself, the parents’ wealth never once pushed in his face; regular people whose hard work and luck had made them rich enough to own a summer place down the coast away from the crowd, for family and friends to enjoy with each other, always plenty of kids, always plenty of laughter, never a fight or a nasty word, so far as Trevor could remember over the many years of all those long summers. Even the flies were less aggressive in Frankston, flies that now he would put up with, not even swatting the little bastards as he sat in the sun on the beach. He could smell the salt from the sea. Hear the rolling waves. Feel the soft sand between his toes.
“Wake up, airman!” shouted a man in his ear, bringing Trevor to his feet not sure where he was for a split second, shattering the dreams in his mind.
“This isn’t a holiday resort!” The corporal glared at everyone. “The bus leaves for Staffordshire in half an hour. Square-bashing, you lucky people. Stop gawping, airmen. This is the air force. Here, you do what you’re told. You don’t daydream in front of an empty plate. Didn’t someone tell you there’s a war on? Jerry’s going to bite your arse if you don’t look sharp. Quick march!”
Trying to make it look as if he was marching, pushing his arms out, stamping his feet, Trevor followed in the shambles that left the canteen.
“You’re a bloody shower,” bellowed the corporal behind them, the only person in the room now enjoying himself.
In Trevor’s right hand was the kit bag with all his possessions which he’d been told not to let out of his sight when they made him change into his uniform, the arms and legs too short, the part of his skin under the piece of belt still itching. Blanking his mind, Trevor followed orders until he was on the bus on his way to his basic training unit in a place he had never heard of until today. When he managed to find a seat on the bus, his kit bag on his knee, he was wet, cold and miserable.
8
Three days before Christmas, while Officer Cadet Hemmings was on his way to Flying Command in Scotland, looking out of the window of the train at the snow drifting down on a cold countryside, Tina Brigandshaw was finishing the children’s packing at Hastings Court to get it out of the way before her last houseguests arrived for a festive holiday. Once again she had asked her parents to come up from Dorset for Christmas without success, her mother and father preferring to stay in the old railway cottage where they felt comfortable. She had gone down to Corfe Castle by train to say goodbye to avoid the chauffeur-driven car. The children had been left at home at the request of her mother, like the car and the chauffeur.
“Never the twain shall meet, Tina. Like Bert, you made your choice to better your station in life. Anyway, your father doesn't like travelling so far as Johannesburg, or Hastings Court for that matter. We are comfortable where we are. If the Germans want to find us we’d like to be in our own home, not where we don’t fit in. The children don’t want to tell their friends their grandfather is the stationmaster of the smallest railway station in England, they’d be embarrassed. Bert said he’d fly us to South Africa to get away from the war. What would your father do without his job? He’d have nothing to do. At our age it’s important to have something to do. The war doesn’t affect us here. The pickles are in the store cupboard alongside the bottled plums. The Victoria plums were good this year. The fox hasn’t got any of the chickens and Mr Pringle still shoots the odd rabbit. You entertain your fancy friends and leave us out of it, luv. How are the children? Growing up, I suppose. That’s when they notice the class difference and that won’t do. We’re n
ot ashamed of ourselves. Why let the children feel awkward? Lady St Clair stopped by last week with the dogs. She’s lonely without his Lordship. Now there’s a lady. We had a cuppa together in the kitchen in front of the stove while she warmed up. Cold as charity it’s been this winter. You take them to Cape Town, Tina. When you see Bert tell him I think of him. That I’m proud of him. Just we all live different lives. Can’t change that. If you come down on your own again you can always have your old bed for a couple of nights and we can have a good natter. Wars never go on forever. Or maybe they never stop.”
“They’re right, of course,” she said to Anthony, who was helping her pack.
“Who, Mother?”
“Your Pringle grandparents. The cottage was a lot more cosy than this old house. I’ve never found out how to stop the draughts. Stand in front of the fire, the front’s hot and your back freezing. I do believe that’s the last one. I hate packing. The servants can help bring down the trunks. After Christmas two more of them are leaving. One into the army, the other to work at the Goblin factory. Some new government contract. They’ve stopped making vacuum cleaners. Where’s Frank? He was meant to be helping us.”
“Frank doesn’t like work.”
“Oh, well. He won’t have much work in Cape Town. The house is half this size with six servants. When Carter Paterson arrives they can bring the trunks down with the help of the servants straight into the van. We won’t have to see the big trunks again until we reach Cape Town. The Capetown Castle is going to be fun for all of us. Tinus came back to England on the same boat to join the RAF. Are you looking forward to the trip?”
“No, Mother. Father isn’t coming, remember.”
Tina looked at her eldest son. “He should. What can he do now he’s too old to fly? It’s just silly. He always says he’s more African than European. I don’t understand your father, Anthony.”
“Oh, they need him all right. There’s a lot more to fighting a war than flying an aeroplane.”