Mad Dogs and Englishmen (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 3)

by Peter Rimmer

  “And especially the bits that include Barend.”

  “Especially the bits about Barend.”

  “The pact is not going to work.”

  “Then you can use me as a sounding board about England… Oh, and Mother is rebuilding the fireplace in the lounge. It’s cracked from the heat, Grandfather’s going to supervise. They start tomorrow. I just wanted to warn you. Welcome home. I’ve missed you. We all have. Why did you stay away so long?… No. Don’t answer that.”

  “He’d gone a long way. Wanted to go further. The Skeleton Coast. We were looking for the source of the diamonds.”

  “Did you find any?”

  “Not one,” lied Harry. “Boil an egg for mother. I’ll make her eat it.”

  The idea had come to him with the fireplace. The old, cracked fireplace came to a small pyramid at the centre. The mantelpiece over the fire topped the pyramid. It was a perfect spot. He would tell them the big rock was a crystal he had picked up on his travels. The best hiding place for the big diamond was right in front of everybody. No one would cement a diamond into the mantelpiece of the fire. Even if it did sparkle in the firelight, no one would think of the stone as other than a worthless piece of rock. Just a pretty crystal. Rose quartz. There was a slight rose tint to the diamond when it came into the light. Even if the house burnt to the ground, the heat would do nothing to harm the diamond.

  In his mind’s eye he thought it would take a year or two to sort out the mess in England. Then he would come home. In a year or two he would find a buyer for Colonial Shipping. His responsibility would be over. Cousin Archie could have Hastings Court. The idea of leaving Africa forever was too appalling. He would split the proceeds of the sale among his grandfather’s descendants. In equal proportions. The children now screaming again on the lawn would be rich. Harry thought further. He would create a family trust with the senior members of the family as trustees.

  Harry picked up the breakfast tray and took it through to his mother’s bedroom. Somehow what he now knew about his mother made her even more precious to him. She was half asleep. Harry kissed her on her brow.

  “You have a mischievous look in your eyes, Harry.”

  “I love you, my mother. Your breakfast is served. I will leave you in peace.”

  “Thank you, Harry.”

  “My pleasure, Mother dear,” he was trying to be flippant.

  “Ah, he told you.”

  “Yes he did.”

  “I’m glad… Did it hurt?”

  “Not at all. It has made me very happy.”

  His mother was smiling at him from where her head lay on the pillow. For the first time Harry realised what a beautiful woman she must have been as a girl. His father had been lucky. It was nice to be born of both of them.

  “I made Madge include a boiled egg. Eat it, Mother dear. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can I pour your tea?”

  “Please.”

  “Did Jim Bowman leave an address?”

  “I have it somewhere. He’s in Salisbury. You will like him. From the North. Where your father’s family came from. How long are you going to be away?”

  “I’ll go at the end of the tobacco season… One, maybe two years. However long it takes for me to find a suitable buyer and sell Colonial Shipping. Don’t you worry your head… We’ll have to stop them bullying little Doris.”

  “Go and have your breakfast.” She was still smiling at her son.

  When Emily tasted the egg, it was rich and good. She finished all the egg and two pieces of toast. Then she drank a full cup of tea.

  Later, and for the first time in a long time, she was happy to get out of bed. There were things to do. Things to look forward to in her life.

  8

  New Horizons, January 1921

  Jim Bowman watched the touring cars arriving outside Meikles Hotel. He was eking out a pot of tea in the courtyard, conserving what was left of his fifty pounds, seven shillings and thruppence that had started him on his journey to Africa from England. There were four cars with long bonnets making powerful noises in the street. The big Zulu doorman dressed in animal skins watched the entourage arrive. He was not carrying his usual spear and shield. To Jim, the leopard skin over the big Zulu’s shoulder looked shabbier than when he first arrived in Salisbury back in August. They had returned from the Valley of the Horses a month ago. Colonel Voss was living with the original owner of Hamlet and Othello along with the dog, King Richard the Lionheart. The cart they had travelled in was back in the squalid yard of the man Colonel Voss called ‘Sir Robert’. Jim had doubted the knighthood from the start. There had not been a penny returned of his money. Once money left Jim’s hand it never seemed to come back again. The horses and the dog were happy to be home. There was grazing round the old shack. The bush grass had grown again. Jim had made up his mind to check on the animals once a month to make sure they were all right. None of the animals had let him down.

  What Jim needed most was a job. A real start on something in Africa. There was no doubt in his mind he would never go home to live in England. Colonel Voss had told Jim he had bush fever with no sign of a temperature. Jim was not sure how a man had a fever without being sick. Fact was, he felt very well.

  “Some get it, dear boy. Some don’t. You’ve got it. Bitten. Incurable. Marvellous.”

  Jim knew the old man was right. The codfish in the Irish Sea would likely not be troubled by one Jim Bowman. He certainly hoped not. Life in Africa was nothing else but interesting.

  Behind the four open tourers arrived a five-ton truck. Jim had seen many of them in France. They were army trucks. Hard on the bones of the driver. Rugged. He had travelled in many of them. What it was doing behind the smart cars was at first a mystery. They were all together. Jim could see that from his vantage point at the courtyard round table. He had already ordered a second pot of hot water which he had poured into the silver teapot. There was now little colour to his tea, and the milk had run out. There were three other men doing the same thing inside the lounge which was why he had chosen to sit outside… They were all out of work. The others probably couldn’t even afford a pint of beer. The only thing going for them was being English or Scots or Welsh or Irish. One of the down and outs with frayed white cuffs and no cufflinks was a Scot. Jim could hear his accent. None of them ever seemed to speak to each other. Silent islands with two hot water pots for their tea. Jim had learnt the extra hot water pot trick from the Scot. It added half an hour to sitting in the comfort of the hotel.

  In the front of the touring cars, the driver and the passenger were white men. They wore new pith hats. In the back seat plush with red leather were black men, two to each car. In the front of the truck, in the cab, were a white man and a black man. The white man who was the driver wore a cloth cap. The pith-hatted gentlemen were the first to get out. The black men in the back sat rigid, upright and Jim thought rather frightened of the roaring car engines. The Zulu had thought better than trying to open all the car doors at once. From somewhere he had found his shield and spear and stood aloof. Jim caught the Zulu’s eye. The pith-hats wore long khaki shorts and long socks and every one of them had knobbly knees. They were all well into their fifties. The knees were as white as snow. The black men sat on their seats regally not knowing what to do next. The Zulu winked at him. There was no doubt in Jim’s mind. Jim let out an involuntary laugh and put his right hand over his mouth. The pith-hats did not look at him, which was fortunate. To distract himself, Jim caught the eye of the only waiter attending the courtyard. He ordered himself the first beer of the day. Appearance in Africa counted for everything. A man drinking a beer was not a drifter. The two ‘hot water pot’ men in the lounge were drifters who would not be drifters if they sat long enough in the lounge of the hotel and got themselves a job.

  By the time the beer came the luggage had been removed from the racks of the back of the tourers. The truck had been sent off round the back to the tradesman’s entrance.
Jim had heard the hotel day manager give the instructions.

  It was twelve o’clock so drinking a beer was now all right. The men’s bar next to the courtyard opened at ten in the morning but Jim knew better than to drink before twelve. Colonel Voss had said drinkers before twelve in the morning were drunks. After nearly a month waiting around looking for a job, Jim knew Colonel Voss was right.

  Jim had a small room six streets from the hotel which was cheap. The beers were cheaper in the men’s bar. Anyway, the beers were cheap. There was now a local brewer in Salisbury which was what made the beer inexpensive. Jim had looked up the brewer in case he had a job. The idea of a Crown land farm of his own was fading as fast as his money. To get a farm, he needed five years’ experience of farming. He had none.

  When the group of men from the tourers came back from booking into their rooms in the hotel, they were without their pith hats. Three of them were mostly bald on top. They took tables in the courtyard surrounding Jim and ordered beers. The black men from the back of the tourers had gone off with another black man who worked for the hotel. The hotel had servants’ rooms at the back so Jim had been told by Colonel Voss. There was a small courtyard under trees in between the servants’ rooms in the hotel where the servants were given their food. One of the trees in the courtyard was covered in blue flowers. No leaves. Just blue flowers that matched the sky. Jim had seen the flowering tree over the wall from the road when he walked from his room every day.

  They were very loud. Jim soon learnt the men were on a hunting safari. They kept saying the truck was full of their equipment. The driver of the truck with the cloth cap had not joined them. Jim thought the man was a servant from England. The pith-hats said they were going to kill elephants. They repeated this to each other and for anyone else to hear within a hundred yards. Jim was about to get up and take his beer into the men’s bar when he stopped. He had half risen from his wooden chair. They all had plummy accents which made him irritated. He felt sorry for the elephants to be killed by people so crass. He had heard the name Brigandshaw. Then the name again. They were going to visit Brigandshaw. Brigandshaw was going to take them out and show them the elephants they were going to kill. One of them asked another how far it was to Elephant Walk. Jim was unable to resist.

  “Twenty miles,” he said. “He’s not there. Been away for over a year.”

  They all stopped talking to look at him. Jim wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  “I say, do you know the way?”

  “Of course.” He had the bottle of beer and a half empty glass in his hand and was on his feet. They could see he was on the way to the bar, trying to get away from them.

  “Give you a fiver if you take us there. You do know Brigandshaw?” They were treating him like a servant. His accent had told them he was working class.

  “I know his mother.” Jim wanted to turn his back on them.

  “Good. Splendid. Tomorrow then. Ten o’clock sharp. If we go on from there, you’ll have to walk back.”

  “Make it ten pounds.”

  “That’s a bit steep.”

  “Not if you think of the petrol for all those cars if you don’t know where you’re going. Easy to get lost in the bush.”

  “Done. Ten o’clock. What’s your name?”

  “Jim Bowman.”

  “Lord James Worth, Bowman. Now don’t forget.”

  Jim went on his way to the men’s bar.

  “Ten pounds is preposterous,” he heard one of them say.

  “So’s a fiver,” said Lord James Worth.

  They both had the same name, Jim thought. Probably the only thing they had in common. He wondered if it would be worth his while. Whether he was going to be lucky.

  “You never know,” he said to himself. “Some people have money to burn. Usually someone else’s.” Then he laughed to himself. He was getting the hang of Africa. He had lost ten pounds. Now he was going to make ten pounds. Probably ten shillings by the next morning but never mind. The idea was enough for him to order a second beer. And a third.

  By the time Simon Haller found him he was well on his way. The pith-hats had gone.

  “Found you at last. They said you had a room in the Avenues. Moved out of the hotel. We’ve managed to find a dress uniform of the Lancashire Fusiliers. The tailor will have to do some work. For the wedding photograph.”

  “What does Jenny Merryl have to say about that?”

  “The photograph or the wedding?”

  “Either. You wrote a pack of lies. The poor girl thinks I have been in love with her for years.”

  “The wedding story and the photograph will be syndicated round the world.”

  “We don’t even know each other.”

  “You lived next door but three.”

  “Are you that desperate for a story?”

  “The world loves a good love story. Hero and sweetheart. You can’t sell a story and then renege on me, Jim Bowman. Do you remember my five pounds? That cost me sweat to get out of the editor.”

  “You lied, Simon Haller.”

  “I made the story more vivid. Colourful. More readable. Basically, it was true, of course. I should be a novelist. And rich. None of this nonsense.”

  “Why did the girl come all this way?”

  “Because she loves you, Jim boy. She’s beautiful. Young. In love with you… We’ll pay you again for the story of your wedding. How’s that? A happy ending. Everyone loves a happy ending. There haven’t been many of them recently.”

  “She doesn’t love me. She loves your story of me. Girls are all romantic.”

  For Jim Bowman, the whole thing had got out of control. The journey to the Valley of the Horses with Colonel Voss had made him wiser. More realistic. He had no money. He had no job. It was just some newspaperman in pursuit of the story. He had not even seen the girl for ten days. Once her picture appeared in the Rhodesia Herald she was meeting one man after another. There was a shortage of English girls in Salisbury. No one cared in Africa where she fitted into the English class system. She was English. That was good enough.

  “Would you like another beer?” said Simon Haller. “Have a whisky. Buy you lunch. A bottle of wine. Just as long as you get into that uniform for Solly to take a photograph. We can go to the tailor after lunch.”

  “You’re not going to photograph us together then?”

  “We might not.”

  “You want them as wedding photographs?”

  “The bride to be. The groom. That sort of thing. Five pounds.”

  “Just for a photograph of me in uniform?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whisky! Lunch! Wine! And five pounds! How many papers have pre-bought your syndication?”

  “One hundred and twelve.”

  “Why?”

  “It caught on. The twenty-five pounds reward to find Jenny Merryl. The fact she read our article and ran to you. They feel part of it. They love it. All those lonely lost souls without a hope in hell of falling in love with a war hero. Through my story they feel part of Jenny Merryl. In their hearts they too came to Africa. Africa, with lions and elephants they’ve never seen in Milwaukee or Manchester. Mill girls. Poor mill girls. Living their dream through Jenny Merryl who went all the way to Africa from Neston. We can’t leave them hanging, Jim. We owe them more than that.”

  “You should have been a novelist…”

  On the following day Sir Henry Manderville had just told the barn worker to increase the heat by ten degrees in the number fourteen barn when the first tourer car came into view. The number fourteen barn was three from the end of the row of red-brick barns that rose thirty feet above his head. From where he stood at the back of the barns Sir Henry could see the hills over which the dust road from Salisbury wound its way towards Elephant Walk. One after the other the cars came into view and they disappeared into a dip. Last over the ridge came what looked like a five-ton truck he had seen in photographs taken during the war in France. The same type of truck that transported ammunition an
d men on their way to the Western Front.

  “Now what the hell’s going on?”

  “What you say, Baas Henry?” asked Lucas, the black man who worked the barns during the day.

  “Nothing. Someone’s arriving.”

  “That big, big machine. Bigger than tractor.” Like Henry, Lucas had never seen anything like the truck before in his life.

  Curious, Sir Henry began to walk towards where the road from Salisbury ended among the sprawl of buildings he had mostly built himself with farm labour. There were twenty barns in two rows of ten attached to each other side by side. A large grading and bulk shed combined. A tractor shed for two tractors and a small workshop that he was slowly filling with useful equipment from the profits he made from selling his Virginia tobacco, the seed for which came from his cousin George in Virginia, America.

  He could hear the powerful engines of the cars as they drew nearer the barns. The truck made a different sound, lower in key but just as powerful. When Henry reached the gate at the end of the avenue of young jacaranda trees to open the gate to Elephant Walk, the big bonnet of the lead car was pointing directly at him. Two men were looking at him through the square windscreen. The morning sun was dappling them through the sky-blue flowers of the jacaranda trees. Henry swung open the gate. A man not much younger than himself took off a pair of goggles and smiled at him. The smile was false. Put on. The man was covered in red dust from the road. To Henry’s surprise, the man in the passenger seat was the young man who had been looking for a job just after Christmas. The man who was not much more than a boy.

  “Brigandshaw?” bellowed the driver.

  “He’s up at the house.”

  “Jolly good.” The clutch was let out and with a flourish of clutch and gears the car moved forward leaving Henry still holding open the gate. Three more cars followed the first. No one even looked at him. In each of the red leather seats at the back of the cars sat two black men. They looked terrified. Henry waited for the truck before shutting the gate.