by Peter Rimmer
“So he says. Didn’t he do enough last time?”
“Apparently not. He and the rest of them. My history teacher says they should line up all the politicians in Europe and shoot the lot of them. I don’t agree with him. Dad says what would we do without Neville Chamberlain. That without him we wouldn't have radar down the south coast and no good fighter aeroplanes to keep the Germans out of our skies. When I’m eighteen I’m coming home to fly Spitfires.”
“The war will be over by then.”
“I don’t think so, Mother. The fact the Germans haven’t invaded France doesn’t mean they’re not going to. Just look what they did to Poland in a week. Mr Straker says they’ll walk all over the French. Mr Straker’s my maths teacher. He should know. He was in the last war, his trench was next to the French.”
“We won the last war. We and the French will win this one. And you are not coming back, young Anthony, even when you turn eighteen. Your father will see to that. He hates war. You’d better go now to get to the station on time. Tinus is bringing his Polish friend. They both have four-day passes from Tangmere. The rest of the guests start arriving tomorrow.”
“Are you sad?”
“It’s always sad when something comes to an end.”
“You’ll come back to England.”
“Probably. Probably not. Your father wants to live in Rhodesia when the war’s over. By then I won’t have the strength to argue with him. Sometimes it’s easier to do what everyone wants.”
“Elephant Walk. Such a funny name if you think about it. Cheer up, Mum. It’s Christmas.”
The hauliers Carter Paterson arrived soon after the boys went off to pick up Tinus at the station. There would be plenty of time for Harry to find out what was going on at Tangmere. To find out what it was like to have fought the Luftwaffe in Poland flying obsolete aircraft, as much sitting ducks in the air as on the ground.
“At least the lad took my advice and escaped to England,” Harry said, looking at his wife. “Wonder what happened to that pretty girl he brought here last time? Are you sad leaving the house?”
They were seated in front of the fire drinking tea and eating crumpets dripping in their own farm butter, the door open to the stairs and the hall.
“Was that, am I sad leaving you, Harry? Come with us, for God’s sake. They don’t need you here. You say yourself if the Germans attack London they’ll be right over Hastings Court. What’s the point? Why put your life on the line when it isn’t necessary?”
“There probably isn’t one, Tina. There often isn’t. I’ve always had a feeling that I have to be at the heart of a problem or everything will go horribly wrong. Like the dam over the Mazoe River. The pump station and the sapling orange trees are in but the engineers came home the moment Tinus left. What’s the use of a half-finished concrete dam? All that effort and the water’s still flowing down the river unchecked.”
“About as much use as an air-raid shelter in a direct hit.”
“It’s more psychological. People feel safer in an air-raid shelter. They’re going to bump the railings on the stairs with that one. Belonged to my grandfather Brigandshaw. One of his old sea chests. Where on earth did you find it?”
“Mrs Craddock. She knows everything in this house. If you ask me she’ll be glad to see the back of us. Before I arrived she ruled the roost with an iron fist.”
“She’s very fond of you and the children.”
“The children, maybe. She’ll look after you. Will any more servants leave?”
“I’m closing up all but a suite of rooms. Hastings Court won’t be entertaining after this Christmas. Some of the chaps on leave, maybe… You see what I mean! They’ve clobbered the bottom part of the stairs. Hey, watch that, lads! Been there a long time that piece of wood. Let Jerry knock it down.”
“Sorry, sir. This thing’s heavy.”
“You’re probably not the first poor sod to say that. It’s a real sea chest. From the days of sailing.” Harry got up from his chair and walked to the open door of the morning room.
“Must have been stronger in them days. Where you going?”
“South Africa. My wife and children.”
“Lucky buggers, guv. All that sun and no Hitler.”
Harry watched four of them struggle with the chest made of teak, the domed lid kept firmly in place with two thick iron straps, the iron pitted with age. Looking up the stairs, Harry could see portraits of his ancestors on the wall looking down in disapproval, the paintings dark with age, only the eyes showing, the rest barely discernible. Harry shivered as if someone had walked over his grave.
“I’m going to put those portraits in the basement,” he said to Tina, sitting down again.
“Why not in the air-raid shelter? You’ll be all together. Master and servant. And the ancestors.”
“I did my best. The concrete blocks are two feet thick.”
“Horrible place. Like sitting in your own coffin, waiting. Sorry. Not necessary. I just don’t understand why you don’t leave the place and come with us on the boat.”
“They didn’t,” said Harry pointing towards the hall and the portraits that climbed the wall of the stairs. “Who else is coming for Christmas?”
“The usual crowd, Harry. To make laughter rise up to the old rafters. Good wine, good food and making merry in the grand old tradition of England,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. “Did I tell you mother had tea with Lady St Clair? Lady St Clair wants to die. Nothing left to do. Must be creepy at Purbeck Manor. Just the old girl and Merlin. Mum says no one goes anywhere near them.”
“Not even Barnaby?” said Harry, adding his own sarcasm.
“Not even Barnaby, Harry. London’s still full of young girls. More than ever with the army in France and all the young men getting their call up papers. What would he want with the old Manor? Mum thinks she’s her only friend. Mum and Mrs Mason. They’re all as old as the hills. What’s the point of getting to that age?”
“We all get old, Tina. If we’re lucky.”
Janusz Kowalski looked silently out the window as the train slid into Leatherhead Station. Everything had changed from his last visit to Hastings Court. Then he had a country, a father he knew was alive. Ingrid was with him in the flesh if not in the full spirit of acting like his fiancée. Summer in the countryside of England. They still had an estate in Poland; only God now knew what had happened to the house, the farm and all the people.
A lawyer, if not yet a good one without the knowledge that only came from experience. Ingrid. Where was she? Partying with some German officer? Using her charm? Decorating the flat for a German Frau in a home confiscated from a fellow Pole? Using her sex appeal? Enjoying the excitement of new men whatever the uniform? Or was she dead? A patriot under all the frivolity that had driven him to distraction, the desire for her so intense even thinking of her now made him want to scream. The smell of burning aircraft came back to his nostrils. His own flesh. Twice, not even firing his guns at the German planes as the Germans flew rings round his squadron, picking off his friends one by one.
The fear and loathing as he escaped to Danzig. The small fishing boat that had got him out to sea with a young fisherman as frightened as himself, everyone fleeing the Germans in any direction, the guns just behind them as they fled, big guns and small. Relentless. Only the small boat taking them away, the small sail catching the wind, the open boat going out and away from the man-made horror engulfing his country.
“If you don’t get out now you’ll end up at the next station,” said Tinus next to him. “They won’t be meeting the train at Ashtead. There’s Anthony waving like a lunatic.”
“I was thinking, Tinus.”
“I know you were. Why I didn’t want to interrupt. Come on. It’s about to stop. Otherwise you’ll have to jump.”
“I did that twice.”
“This time the ground is a lot closer. You’ll be all right. They won’t shoot down a Hurricane. This time it will be your turn. You can show us the tricks
. I haven’t seen combat. You can take revenge for your friends. Cheer up, my friend. There is always hope.”
“Don’t wish for combat, Tinus. You go first. I’m a better jumper.”
“That’s better. Got to laugh or you cry. My goodness. It’s young Kim. The whole tribe of the Brigandshaws. Nice of the CO to give us Christmas leave together.”
“Your Uncle Harry put a good word in is my guess.”
“Probably. It’s bloody cold with the carriage door open. Here we go.”
Both with kitbags over their shoulders, both in civilian clothes, they stepped out onto the platform as the train jolted to a halt.
“Must have seen us up front, Janusz. Anthony! Frank! Dorian! Kim! What a welcome. We’re going to have a good Christmas. Where’s the carriage, boys? Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”
“Your carriage awaits you, sir,” said Anthony with a mock bow and sweep of his right arm.
“Do we hug or shake hands?”
“Shake hands. You might be Rhodesian, cousin. We’re English.”
They were all grinning at each other as Tinus went from cousin to cousin formally shaking their hands including the just ten-year-old Kim and eleven-year-old Dorian.
“You remember Janusz from his last visit to the Court?”
“Where’s the lovely Ingrid?” asked Anthony, gallantly.
“I don’t know.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry. Have I put my foot in it? Let me carry that kitbag, Janusz. I’d join up myself but Mother won’t let me. We’re going to South Africa. Finally going to South Africa. All except Dad. They’re still fighting over Dad staying, in a polite sort of way. With everything packed it’s more like a wake than Christmas. The food will be all right. Well-hung pheasant. I shot two of them. Suckling pig from the farm. Oh, we’ll eat all right. You’ll both have to make us laugh, Mother in particular. She doesn’t want to go and she doesn’t want to stay. By the way, Tinus, the chauffeur’s name is Dent.”
“Just an expression: home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”
“Is that all you’ve got?”
“They don’t give us much in the air force.”
“What’s it like? The Hurricane?”
“Turns better than any German aircraft.”
“I can’t wait to fly one.”
“You’ll enjoy Bishops for your last two years at school.”
“One year. Then I’m coming back.”
“Finish your schooling. Then you’ll go to Cape Town University. You can’t do much in life without a good education. You’ve got your whole life to think of, Anthony. Think, you can play rugby and cricket at Bishops.”
“I don’t want to play sports. Waste of time.”
“What do you like doing?”
“Annoying my brothers and sisters.”
“Pile in, everyone. There’s enough room in the Austin. Thank you, Dent. Back to the Court.”
“Hello, Dent,” said Tinus. “How’s tricks?”
“I go into the Army Service Corps after Christmas.”
“Well done… Why’s it so cold in England?”
Fleur Brooks, born Jean Brooks before she took her stage name from a novel, plain Jane not suggesting a career in classical or popular music, had already arrived at Hastings Court when Tinus and Janusz drove up in the Austin with the boys. She had brought down the whole band, explaining to the manager of the Mayfair she needed a holiday before the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan.
“You’ll just have to make do, Martin. There are dozens of small bands wanting a Christmas gig. Share the happiness. Hastings Court and Harry Brigandshaw are special to me. And you if you work it out. He was responsible for us playing at Lord St Clair’s last party before he died. Where Celia and I crossed over from pure classics to what you hear today. Our public at the Mayfair will appreciate us more when we come back after Christmas. Just don’t invite Mr Noël Coward to fill the four days.”
“He doesn’t sing anymore in nightclubs. Too busy writing plays for the West End stage. I suppose André Cloete and Tinus Oosthuizen will be there?”
“Only Tinus, I hope. If he can get a Christmas pass. Harry’s working on it. André’s somewhere in France with his squadron.”
“Isn’t the whole air force in France?”
“Chamberlain insisted we keep most of the fighter squadrons in England, to defend our island.”
“He has his finger in every pie.”
“Thank goodness, according to what I hear. But I’m just a woman. What would I know about fighting a war? So there you have it, Martin. Can we go?”
“Are you going to play?”
“Only for fun. They are the nearest I have to friends after you and the band.”
Then she pouted sweetly at the manager of the Mayfair and pinched his cheek, licking her finger and rubbing the pinch with her saliva as a follow-up.
“Careful, Fleur. I’m married.”
“Can we go?”
“You’d better.”
“Oh, goody, goody gum drops.”
“Where do you find your expressions?”
“That one came from my first school. Really we do need a break.”
“Will Barnaby St Clair be in attendance?”
“I don’t think so. There’s something with Barnaby and Harry’s wife. Barnaby and Tina grew up close to each other in the Isle of Purbeck. Whenever I have tried to find out, people avoid the subject.”
With all four members of the band in the car, Fleur had used up all her petrol coupons to drive from the flat she shared with Celia Larson in Paddington to Hastings Court, seventeen miles south of London.
When the big Austin arrived driven by Dent she was looking out of the window in the drawing room across the terrace to the well-kept driveway that fronted the house. One after the other the children spilled out of the car. Immediately Fleur smiled, and not at Tinus who was waving at her where she was standing behind the closed window against the cold. One of the boys was so different to look at than the rest, it was ridiculous. And then she understood. The second in line of the boys was a dead ringer for Barnaby St Clair. Next to her Celia began to giggle.
“He does get around, doesn’t he, Fleur?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Barnaby St Clair and that boy in the drive.”
Only then did Fleur turn around to see if anyone else had heard. Harry Brigandshaw was looking straight at her, his back to the fire. The man didn’t even flinch.
“Is that Tinus arriving?” he asked. Fleur’s window was nearest to the fire.
“Down in the drive.”
“Good. He’s like a son to me. His own father was killed. The only thing I now regret is teaching him to fly. He’s a good pilot. That always helps.”
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Fleur mouthed.
Harry gave her another, smaller smile. Then it was over just as Tina walked into the room where half the guests were still drinking tea and eating sandwiches. All the crusts had been cut off the bread making the triangular sandwiches very small. No one else seemed to have heard Celia’s faux pas so far as Fleur could see. If any of them had, they were keeping it to themselves. Moments later, Celia was giving Tinus a hug and the discord was lost in the tea party chatter.
Having seen what she saw, Fleur was fascinated. She stood watching the boy, with hooded eyes, as the house party got into its stride. She and Barnaby had a lot in common. Both took sex for what it was, mutual gratification; in their case mutual satisfaction. Neither of them read love into a night in bed or expected anything more from each other than perhaps a repeat performance. All the talk of love never dying was false hope. Wanting to have a man’s children, the power of nature wanting to reproduce itself. Wanting to spend their lives together just because they had thrashed around naked in the same bed was to Fleur, as it was to Barnaby, an abject lesson in self-deception. They had parted as lovers as easily as they had come together.
Barnaby had formed a company to record the
band’s songs. Like so many rich men who did not care whether the project succeeded, like his backing of plays on the West End stage, it was all means for Barnaby to give himself a wider range of girls from which to select what he fancied.
Typically, the record company had turned into gold. Making money had not even been Barnaby’s aim. Fleur knew the man had enough money to last him more than one lifetime. Going to bed with Barnaby had been as much for her pleasure as his, any financial reward a by-product. The luck that came with a good idea. For Fleur, who knew she was chronically selfish, the idea of a husband and three demanding children was not on her mind, which was why the boy fascinated her. Making her think about Barnaby, the daddy. Making her stand back from herself and think, something she usually preferred not to do.
Young Frank was so like his father without knowing it, Fleur wanted to laugh. Likely, the boy had no inkling of his heritage, of why he was so different to the rest of the Brigandshaw boys who all showed traits of Harry, a man who was nice to everyone, not a nasty bone in his body. Certain the boy was unaware of his true father, Fleur was equally certain Barnaby knew all about his son and chose to take no interest, let alone wanting to claim him as his own. Barnaby was just as selfish. What would he want bringing up a son, even one so much like himself? Fleur, feeling guilty at not wanting kids, tried to put the boy out of her mind to concentrate on the frivolous.
When the palaver broke out with the dog, Fleur, despite herself, had seen what had happened before the Alsatian bit Frank, sending his mother into a tizz, demanding from Harry the poor dog be put down, shouting that dogs that bit small boys should not be allowed in the house. The bite, as far as Fleur saw, was pretty ordinary, a snap reaction to Frank kicking the dog hard when he thought no one was looking. The kind of kick Fleur could imagine Barnaby executing at the same sort of age just to see what would happen; so much of what Barnaby did in his life was only to see what would happen.
Like young Frank, Barnaby was easily bored. Barnaby was a good chaser but rarely wanted what he chased when it was caught unless he was hungry. West End plays, once he had shown he made money out of them, like the record company, now bored him stiff. Fleur knew she bored him too in or out of bed, something she did not mind. Like Barnaby she had got what she wanted at the time and was happy to move on, something André Cloete had not been able to understand. André wanted women to want him after he was finished. That man had ego problems, from Fleur’s point of view.