by Peter Rimmer
“No it isn’t, Samuel. And it isn’t going to happen.”
“How do you know? You live in the colonies. What do you know about the toffs in the City? They’d cut your throat to make a profit. Throw out any deal to push up the share. We need a union. A clerks’ union. Look after our rights… What’s it like where you come from?”
Samuel Adams drank down half his beer.
“It’s very beautiful. The sun shines most of the time. Animals. Lots of wild animals. The bush has a smell of its own. There’s a saying in my country, that if you drink the water of the Zambezi, Africa gets into your blood. That’s my problem. We all have problems, Samuel. They are just different.”
“What brings you to England, then?”
“I’ve come to sell a company. Give away a big house. Now you have made it much more difficult. My name is Harry Brigandshaw. I’m the Captain’s grandson. I now own Colonial Shipping.”
“WHAT on earth are you doing drinking here?”
“The same reason you are, I expect. Getting away from those managers at Colonial Shipping. I’m sure most of them are good men but I hate servility… I won’t forget what you said. You won’t go on half a pension… Remember me to Flossie when you get home… I think I’m going to walk the streets of London. At home when I want to think I walk the bush. With a gun. I hope I don’t need a gun in London. Sounds like the predators here come in a different form. Then maybe some men are animals… It has been a pleasure meeting a friend of my grandfather. He never wanted to know me. Up until now I never wanted to know him for what he did to me, my father and my mother. You gave him a different light. Good day, Samuel.”
“It’s raining outside.”
“I walked in the rain before… There was a time not so long ago on the banks of the Chobe River…”
“You don’t have an umbrella.”
“All I needed was my horses to get home.”
The man Samuel was looking at him strangely. Harry smiled at him and picked up the empty beer mugs. On his way out of the Lion he put the mugs on the bar counter.
Outside the soft drizzle was pleasant on his face.
By the time he reached the Savoy Hotel he was soaked to the skin. The man at the reception desk was about to say something rude.
“My name is Harry Brigandshaw. You have a room for me.”
“You don’t have any luggage, sir?”
“No, I don’t. I hope my staff sent my overnight bag ahead of me. You can send supper to my room. A bath and bed. By tomorrow my suit will be dry and someone can give it a press… Will that be too much trouble?” The man in the dove-grey jacket with black, pinstripe trousers checked his records.
“Of course, Mr Brigandshaw. Anything you wish Mr Brigandshaw. Colonial Shipping did indeed send us your suitcase. Welcome to the Savoy. Your uncle was a regular guest of ours. A very special guest.”
Harry smiled sadly. The man had gone from hostility to servility in ten seconds.
Harry squelched across to the lift and went up to his room, the lift man giving his wet clothes a rueful smile.
“I’m from Africa,” said Harry to the man as if that explained everything.
Inside his room he wondered why he had had to say anything. Why people always needed to explain.
His suitcase was sitting on a low stool ready for easy opening. His only change of clothes was his evening dress. Tails and white tie. In case he was forced to attend a formal function. He had never before worn tails. In the air force he had worn uniform. His number one uniform on formal occasions.
Changing his mind, Harry rang down to the reception desk.
“Brigandshaw… I’ve changed my mind, can you call me a taxi please? I will not be eating in my room.” As he put down the telephone, there was a knock on his door. Harry sent the man away with a five-shilling tip. The Savoy was certainly efficient. The man had had the supper menu in his hand.
“Where to, guv’nor?”
“I’m thirty-five. A bachelor. Where’d you think I should go?”
“New to London, guv?”
“I was here a bit during the war.”
“Where you’re from, guv?”
“Rhodesia.”
“Never ’eard of it. Try the Trocadero, seeing you is dressed like that.”
“It’s in Africa.”
“Blimey. I thought the Trocadero was in London.” Harry laughed as he was obliged to. “Is the Troc all right, guv?”
“Troc sound fine. Can a man dine on his own?”
“Don’t see why not… You don’t know nobody in London, guv?”
“Not a soul.”
The taxi pulled up outside the ornate entrance to the supper club. Harry had heard of the place. Expensive. He hoped they would give him a table. Not sure of himself, he asked the cabbie to wait. After booking a table he went back and paid the man.
“You ’ave a good time, guv.”
On his own, Harry was not so confident. Inside the lights were dim. Tables were set around the small dance floor. A band was playing ragtime. A waiter showed him a small table at the back, furthest away from the dance floor, each table had red shaded lamps in the middle. The waiter cleared away the excess cutlery leaving one place setting. Harry ordered a drink and sat back to survey the room from his place of obscurity.
It was ten o’clock. The theatres were yet to come out. The big room with its tables and alcoves was comparatively empty. Harry noted he was not out of place in evening dress. Would probably have not been allowed in dressed in a suit and tie.
The band was good. The whisky he had ordered came quickly. He made it a double, for a starter. He told the waiter to bring back the menu in half an hour. No one took any notice of him. They were all absorbed in themselves. Most of the people were young. Harry had heard of the flappers and thought he was looking at them. It was pleasant to observe without being observed.
A large party came in noisily. Harry finished his second drink. The dance band was taking a break. To Harry’s surprise he recognised one of the crowd. He was almost sure it was Barnaby St Clair. For some reason he quickly remembered Barnaby owed Jim Bowman ten pounds. The girl with Barnaby was now also familiar. Three tables were being put together for the new party. Some of the party were already dancing on the dance floor, even without the band. They were well known to the staff. They were loud. Harry thought they had been drinking.
He distinctly heard the name St Clair being spoken. Harry had known Robert and Merlin better than Barnaby. Harry had met Barnaby at Purbeck Manor in 1916, he remembered. Barnaby had just been posted to Palestine and was on embarkation leave. Harry was on leave from his squadron in France. They had walked the small river together once. It was all Harry could remember.
The story of Jim Bowman’s ten pounds was back in his mind… Then he remembered the girl with Barnaby. It was Tina Pringle. The girl who had visited Elephant Walk with a much older American. Harry remembered her brother had made himself rich in South Africa. Something to do with explosives and gold.
The whisky had gone to his head, making the stories cross over and swirl in his mind. It was bad of Barnaby to borrow ten pounds and not give it back.
The girl with Barnaby was looking across at his lonely table and then she was getting up and walking across the empty dance floor. The band was still on their break. The flappers had given up dancing without music.
“Aren’t you Harry Brigandshaw? Someone said you were in England. Yes, it was Merlin. He read it in The Times. I once visited your farm in Rhodesia. Don’t you remember me?… You did meet Barnaby St Clair? He’s over there. Come and join us. Can’t have you sitting in splendour all on your own. I’m afraid we’ve all been drinking so you’ll have to excuse us. One of those dreadful cocktail parties that just went on and on. Why the Americans invented them I don’t know. You have to stand up to drink, for goodness’ sake. They probably think you’ll go home early if you have to stand up. We were the last to leave. Come and meet everybody. I was terribly sorry to hear ab
out your wife. Things like that always seem to happen to nice people. Nothing ever happens to people like Barnaby.”
“Isn’t he nice?”
“Of course he isn’t. Everybody knows that. Charming. He’s charming. But not very nice. You can take my word for it and I’ve known him all my life.”
“I do know Barnaby St Clair. He owes a friend of mine ten pounds.”
“Barnaby owes everyone ten pounds. Well, probably more than ten pounds. Even now he’s rich he can’t get out of the habit of borrowing money.”
“How did he make his money? If I remember, he was going to be a soldier for life.”
“Who knows? Who knows anything with Barnaby? Good. You’ve finished your drink. Come along. They are much better sober. Once you’ve had a few, you’ll get in the swing. The band here is terrific. Can you do the Charleston? Well it doesn’t matter. You can do some native dance for us when we’re all drunk. Then it doesn’t matter what you do. Look, here comes Barnaby.”
“Harry Brigandshaw in the living flesh. Bless my soul. Harry, old boy. How are you? Tina recognised you. Quite a gal, our Tina. Come and meet the crowd. The bill will follow you, don’t you worry. I’ve table-hopped six times and still been given the bill. For everyone. That was a hoot… Merlin said he read about you in The Times. So. You’ve come to live in England?”
“How are you Barnaby? How are your mother and father?”
“Why didn’t you tell us? You are my brother-in-law you know. Lucinda was my favourite sister. She was everyone’s favourite, dammit.”
To Harry’s surprise there were tears in Barnaby’s eyes. Even with all the drink they surprised him. Taking a hold of himself, he only just managed to stop his own tears.
“I’m going down to Purbeck Manor next week,” he said, keeping the choke out of his voice.
“I should think so.”
Tina had Harry by the hand as they walked across the small square that made up the dance floor between the tables. The band was on a raised dais behind. The band were coming back again for another set. Some of them were picking up their instruments. The same waiter from his lonely table at the back was making a place for him at the three tables put together next to the dance floor. Harry thought the trick in keeping track of the money was not to change the waiter for the men. The men always paid. It was expected of them. Girls only brought enough money for the taxi fare back to their mothers. They all had very small handbags. Some of them exquisitely worked with needle and cotton. Harry thought there was a French word for it.
He was introduced to a flurry of excitement with his brother-in-law telling everyone he had just inherited Colonial Shipping and that Harry was his brother-in-law. Harry was not sure whether he liked Barnaby St Clair and suspected another motive other than boosting Harry’s standing with the crowd. He watched the word begin to circulate about the death of his wife. In turn, as they heard from the whispers, they looked at him with drunken sympathy. The sympathy was quickly lost as the band struck up again. Tina made him dance, which was a mistake. He knew he was a terrible dancer. As it was required of him, he did his best. They had never taught dancing at Bishops in the Cape. Maybe they should have done, Harry thought ruefully.
The dance floor filled up quickly, everyone squashed onto the one small square between the tables. All Harry had to do was sway with the music. Tina was very close to him. She was brushing her thighs against his. He looked down into her eyes to make sure that her brushing against him was an accident. A necessity in the small space. It wasn’t. Harry’s hands began to sweat where they held Tina’s hands. The girl leaned into the crook of his arm. Harry was sure he could feel her breasts. No one seemed to notice. Or care. The music was slow and sultry. To protect himself from making a fool of himself, Harry thought of the reed hut he had built for himself on the banks of the Chobe River. The idea was good, but it did not help. Looking up at him, Tina licked her lips. She could feel what was happening to him. Before the music stopped, she thrust in her hips and gave him a turn. Then she smiled up sweetly.
“Let’s sit down, Harry. You don’t like dancing. You can take me to the theatre another night. I love the musicals. There’s one I haven’t seen.”
“I thought you were with Barnaby?” His voice was husky. The girl was fully in control.
“Barnaby is just a friend… I remember you so well from Elephant Walk. Once, during the war, I saw your photograph in the Rand Daily Mail. In Johannesburg. I thought then I wanted to meet you again… You have to go on in life, Harry, you can’t stay frozen in a tragedy. My number is Primrose 101. You can remember that, can’t you Harry? You see, we are both Africans. I love Africa… You don’t like the idea of running the shipping line. I could see that in your eyes when everyone was talking about how rich you were. You can take me back to Africa with you. On the same ship, I mean. I hate travelling alone. I want to spend my life in Africa. Not in England. All this is so trivial. After a few months it all becomes boring.”
Harry could see Barnaby looking across to them still swaying to the music that had stopped. He had another girl in his arms. There was no longer good-hearted humour in his eyes. The condescension of having a rich brother-in-law. Instead there was hatred. The same hatred he had seen before in the eyes of Mervyn Braithwaite when he had killed Sara Wentworth. Barnaby St Clair was jealous. The girl was trouble. Harry could see that as plain as a pikestaff.
“We had better sit down, Tina.”
Harry was back in control of his body. The palms of his hands were no longer sweating. The shot that had killed his wife had come out of the crowd on Salisbury railway station. Harry had not even seen Mervyn Braithwaite on the platform as he helped Lucinda down from the railway carriage. By the time he turned round at the sound of the shot, Tembo had wrestled Mervyn Braithwaite to the ground. Harry was sure he would have seen the hatred. The same jealous hatred. It made him go cold. His first instinct was to run away. To go straight back to the Savoy. Barnaby was his brother-in-law. Part of the family he loved as much as his own.
There was so much noise at the table, no one could see there was anything wrong. Tina sat down away from him. Barnaby had left the three joined tables to talk to a couple at another table. He could even hear him laughing over the rest of the noise. The girl Barnaby had been dancing with had sat down on her own. To recover his composure and not to have to talk to Tina Pringle, Harry went across and asked her to dance, confident he would only have to do the shuffle. It would give him time to think. To watch Barnaby. To avoid any embarrassment.
“Come on and dance,” he said to her. She was young and pretty. “My name’s Harry Brigandshaw. I didn’t catch your name. Barnaby was too quick with introductions.”
“I know who you are. You’re from Africa. Did you know my father? Colonel Voss? My name is Justine Voss.”
“I don’t know your father well but the man who works for me does… They went together to the Valley of the Horses. Colonel Voss and Jim Bowman.”
“You have the wrong man. My father died in the Anglo-Boer War. Tina told me to call it the Anglo-Boer War. Before it was the Boer War.”
“Well, the man that fought at the battle of Omdurman and knew Chinese Gordon was very much alive at Christmas time.”
The girl had gone white.
“Don’t let’s dance,” she said. “Sit down next to me. Tell me everything you know about this Colonel Voss.”
“Well, he can’t be your father. That is for certain. The Colonel Voss I know is as poor as a church mouse. Lives off young immigrants by talking them into giving him a grubstake to look for gold. Or anything else you can think of.”
Harry was glad to sit down away from the danger of Tina Pringle.
The girl was pretty. Well-spoken. From a rich family, he expected, or she would not be in a party that included Barnaby St Clair. Harry had no idea he was putting his foot into a place where it should not be.
“Old Voss caught Jim at Salisbury Station. The day Jim arrived in Rhodesia from England. Jim
now works for me on Elephant Walk. That’s my farm.”
The waiter had followed Harry with another double Scotch. The girl had in front of her half a glass of white wine. She only sipped it once as he went on blindly with the story.
“Old Voss thinks the Arabs colonised Rhodesia many centuries before the British. The strange thing is he and Jim found a valley high up in the Chimanimani Mountains in eastern Rhodesia that was full of Arab horses. Jim Bowman swears they were Arab horses. No one believes them because there are no indigenous horses in Africa south of the Sahara. Well, certainly not in Central Africa. Voss talks about the Valley of the Horses. Swears the Arabs brought their civilisation to Africa long before the birth of Christ. Poor old chap. No one believes him.”
“What about General Gordon? My father knew General Gordon. He was a lot older than my mother you see.”
“That explains the coincidence between your father who died in the war and old Voss who now lives with Sir Robert. The dog is called King Richard the Lionheart. The horses Hamlet and Othello. You see what I mean. Colonel Voss is a storyteller. You never know what is true and what is false. Everyone in Salisbury thinks the chance of old Bob being a knight of the realm, are pretty slim. I think Jim Bowman gives old Voss a few shillings every month. Jim has a soft spot for him. Says he learnt more about the African bush from Voss in three months than he will for the rest of his life. On that he may be right. Voss must have heard of your late father. Taken on his name. Bits of your father’s story. Maybe he was your father’s batman. For goodness’ sake, our old Voss is a confidence trickster who talks young men into paying for his stories. One of the stories says he knew Winston Churchill for goodness’ sake, was with him at Omdurman.”