Mad Dogs and Englishmen (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 3)

by Peter Rimmer

  Brett, as the heroine, made her entrance right of stage singing as she came. No one in the audience made a sound. The song rose and fell. The spotlight now on Brett as she moved forward to centre stage. When the curtain fell on act one, the audience sat in total silence as the lights in the auditorium came up. Only then did the chatter break.

  Mrs Schneider unhooked her fingers and thumbs.

  “I like to be alone so if the show sinks I can slink off on my own. It’s your box Mr Fleming. I’m just a singing teacher. There is nothing more I can do but pray.”

  “She’ll be all right.”

  “I hope so. Mostly all an old woman can do so late in her life. What a shame Mr Brigandshaw is so far away. She misses him, did you know that? She told me she never thought she would. That the stage was bigger than her own life. Well it isn’t. Nothing is bigger than a person’s life. Even when they are only twenty years old. Youth is not wasted on the young, despite the glib words of Mr Oscar Wilde. The only part that is important in life is being in love. And that is always for the young, I remember. It is what keeps me alive. The memory of love.”

  “You are a romantic, Mrs Schneider.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that, Mr Fleming?”

  The butterflies had flown out of Brett’s stomach the moment she began to sing. By the time the spotlight picked her out coming from the wings the only world was the stage and the song. The show moved smoothly on, automatically, rehearsed so well there was no thought to her moves, no waiting for cues, just a smooth flow of song and dance and brief sweet lines of dialogue. She was in her dream, consumed by the never real. She was nothing but her part as the show went from scene to scene, act to act until the last curtain fell and the noise began from the other side of the fireproof heavy curtain… The sound of thunder.

  “What’s that?” she said in alarm at the crashing noise.

  “The audience, darling,” said her leading man. “They love us. Quick, back into the centre stage, you and I. Bow low my Brett. You deserve the applause. Superb. Magnificent. You are a star, my dear… Come on. Smile. Here they come.”

  At first they were alone on the stage. Hand in hand. Then the cast came on. Twenty-three curtain calls. One with Brett alone. Most with the whole excited cast. Flowers thrown upon the stage. Showering her. Petals and perfume. Everyone loved her. Oscar Fleming smiled like a man smiling at his prize pig. Why a pig she had no idea. A prize pig with bows and ribbons, perfectly round… She smiled back at him standing in the wings, at last down from his box high above her stage.

  Then they were gone. The curtains came up again. The theatre was empty of people. The let-down began. The fear of the morning newspapers. Someone gave her a drink. Mrs Schneider was giving her a hug. The wine went straight to her head. The footlights dimmed.

  The party moved to a private room of the Savoy. It was a Saturday night, with no show on the Sunday. They drank and talked, chattering about anything but the show.

  When the first newspaper came into the room, silence came down like a fog. Fleming had the newspaper in his hands. Began to shake. Began to read. Began to laugh… Another London newspaper was thrust into his hands. Three more newspapers.

  “We’ll run for a year,” shouted Oscar Fleming. “Not one dud. I give you a toast. To The Golden Moth and all who play in her.”

  “The Golden Moth!”

  Only when Brett reached the flat in Regent Mews, did she cry. She had stopped anyone coming up into Harry Brigandshaw’s flat with her. She wanted to be alone… To think of him. To feel completely and totally miserable. Never so lonely in her life.

  Only much later did she sleep. Exhausted with the night and all that had come and gone, not sure if it was the end or the beginning of her life. Brett Kentrich. Star of the musical stage. With her name in lights and her heart quite broken.

  By lunchtime, with more flowers arriving at the flat for Brett every ten minutes, the SS Corfe Castle was fighting a second storm still three days from Port Elizabeth, the captain having turned the ship to sail into the twenty feet high swells to give the passengers some comfort. The ship was still pitching but no longer pitching and rolling like a corkscrew.

  Nine hundred miles due north of the battened down ship, Barend Oosthuizen, Madge’s husband and brother-in-law of Harry Brigandshaw, heard the first deep rumble in the earth from where he was working a mile below the surface. He had gone down in the cage with the morning shift at shaft number two as usual and as usual he was unable to remember what had happened in the bar the previous night.

  He was eating the bread and cheese his landlady had left at his door in a tin box. Long ago they had stopped talking to each other. He had stopped bringing the whores back to his room, stopped crashing the doors when he came home drunk to fall asleep fully clothed on top of his bed. Mostly the bread and cheese was all he ate all day. He was gaunt and thin, his slate green eyes sunk deep in his bearded face, the blonde beard the colour of dirty straw. He looked at thirty-two an old man. His right hand was bleeding with a deep gash between the knuckles that had cut to the bone.

  All morning he had ignored the pain in his hand, wielding the pickaxe at the gold seam with the full force of hatred. Five miners were feeding the baskets of one pony that trotted back and forth to the rail cart in the dark bowels of the earth, never again to see the light of day. As the weight in the baskets slung over the animal increased, the animal sagged, pain showing in its eyes.

  The pony, eating the fodder that kept it alive, was watching Barend with large brown eyes that reflected the candlelight inside the lamp attached to Barend’s head. He was slumped against the end of the tunnel, against the same seam of gold he had been hacking out for months. The pony was looking for living comfort but found nothing in the slate green eyes staring back. For a moment to Barend it seemed the pony was feeling sorry for him.

  His whole body was covered in a grey dust and his right hand was still bleeding from what he assumed was a fight the previous night. Had his hand not hurt he would have got up and slapped the pony or punched the animal in the mouth. Unlike the other four miners he had never found out the pony’s name. Never fed it titbits. Never stroked the poor animal’s muzzle. He even hated the pony along with the rest of his life and everything in it. One day he hoped when his body was too thin to take the punishment in the bars they would kill him and let him out of his miserable world.

  The second rumble in the earth made the pony whinny. Barend stopped chewing the stale bread that foolishly kept him alive. Then the roof in front of him collapsed, and the pony was gone, no longer there, no longer looking at him. All he saw was a solid face of jagged rock six feet from his nose… Only then did Barend Oosthuizen smile, knowing at last he was going to die.

  Three days later down by the sea so many miles away, the storm had exhausted its rage and the SS Corfe Castle was sailing into Port Elizabeth harbour looking none the worse for wear. Some of the passengers were wondering why they had ever left the safety of the shore to venture on the sea. A brass band was playing on the dock a day later than expected. Even Harry Brigandshaw was happy to go ashore.

  The Colonial Shipping manager was waiting for him with a car and drove him to the office. On the way, Harry stopped the car and bought a copy of the Daily Dispatch. He turned to the financial page and found what he was looking for. Colonial Shipping shares were steady on the London Stock Exchange. He put the newspaper in his briefcase to read at his leisure.

  There were two wires for him from his London office. None important. He had hoped for one from Oscar Fleming and felt the pit of his stomach sink. Not for himself. Gambling in the West End theatre was no different to backing a horse at the Epsom races. The odds the same. Some long. Some short. He had obviously lost his money. The opening of The Golden Moth had been a flop, panned by the critics. So be it, he said to himself. He had salved his conscience. A man nearly twice her age.

  At four o’clock the post office delivered a third telegram to Colonial Shipping addressed to
Harry Brigandshaw. Harry opened the cable.

  GOLDEN MOTH SMASH HIT. I LOVE YOU HARRY. MISS YOU HARRY. PLEASE COME HOME HARRY. YOUR BRETT.

  The guilt from his affair with Tina surfaced before he put the cable in his pocket and asked the manager to drive him back to the ship.

  By the time they reached the docks, Harry had told himself he had the morals of an alley cat. He was a louse. The poor girl loved him and he was a louse.

  There was a bar near the dock where the SS Corfe Castle was moored.

  “Drop me here, please. And thank you.” He had forgotten the man’s name.

  The ship was due to sail the following afternoon. Feeling sad, he went into the men’s bar and put his briefcase on the bar counter. Poor Brett. It was the excitement of the show. She was a star. The love was meant like love from Brett at the end of the letter he thought one day she was going to write to thank him for her big chance in the theatre.

  “She’s a child. Children love differently.”

  “You want a drink?”

  “Thank you.”

  They were the only two in the bar and they talked to each other. About nothing. The pleasant nothing of conversation that had no consequence.

  “No one out so far. Three days it’s been.”

  “Sorry. Came in on the SS Corfe Castle. Delayed by a day by the storms. We left Cape Town three days ago. What’s happened?” Harry was just being polite. Not really interested. Playing the game he had played with so many barman in his life.

  “Mine disaster on the Rand. Some say more than a hundred dead. One of the Boer generals’ sons is down there with them. They’ll be dead by now. The thirst gets them, the ones who are trapped. What a terrible way to die in the dark.”

  “What was the general’s name?” Harry’s whole body had gone cold.

  “Oosthuizen. General Martinus Oosthuizen. The British hanged him for going out with G J Scheepers… The police were waiting for him. He killed a man in a bar brawl the night before his last shift. Luckily he never came up. They’d have hanged him like his father… You haven’t paid! Isn’t this briefcase yours? WHAT’S up with you?”

  “Barend Oosthuizen was married to my sister.”

  The barman watched him go and then began cleaning the bar counter with a dirty rag. Then he looked again at the pound note the stranger had left and back at the now closed door to his bar. He could still see the man who had claimed kinship to the underground rockfall and shook his head. Then he rang up the cost of the drinks and put the change from the pound note in his pocket, shrugging his old shoulders.

  He had been serving drunks for over forty years. They all had a story with themselves as the heroes. Bloke must have read the paper before coming into the bar and made himself a part of the current disaster to gain sympathy or just have something to say. Most of their lives were simply boring, going through the process of getting up, going to work, arguing with their wives, getting drunk and telling tall stories. Only when they were drunk, could they become more than themselves. Only when they were drunk, could they imagine themselves in a life that never happened, telling it time and again until they believed that themselves. Only that way could they ever have a life other than the dreary.

  Sometimes he felt sorry for them. Always he listened to their stories. They could buy a bottle of brandy from the bottle store cheaper and take it home except they needed a listener. Someone to drink with. He was the listener. How he made his wages. He was just the listener. The only way the stories could be real even for a moment. It was what they paid him for.

  He even knew how to change his opinion in mid-sentence to let the drunks hear what they wanted to hear so they liked old Jack and came back and back again. A poor way of making a living but a living like all the rest.

  “I should write a book,” he said to no one. The bar was still empty.

  With nothing to do he dug the Daily Dispatch out from under the bar, spread it out on the counter and began to read. His trick each day was to take as long as possible to read the paper. He sometimes spent hours on his own waiting for a customer.

  On the fourth page was a picture of Harry Brigandshaw. It was next to an article about the arrival in port of the SS Corfe Castle on its maiden voyage.

  “Well, I’ll be buggered,” said the barman as he looked up at the empty street outside. “No wonder the bugger could afford to give me the change from a quid.”

  Len Merryl saw Harry Brigandshaw down on the dock and wondered why the owner of the ship was alone and on foot. The man was carrying a small black case and was headed briskly for the first-class gangplank that would bring him up on board the ship. Apart from the duty officer, at the top of the gangplank there was nobody to be seen. The passengers were in their cabins or onshore.

  Len had done his duty round of the first-class deck and picked up anything out of place. He had done an earlier round in the morning at first light before the ship docked. There had been little for him to do on his second round. He was off duty in half an hour when the sun would go down but had no wish to go ashore. Even the idea of drinking in a bar made him feel sick. The blood splattered over Teresa’s bosom still vivid in his mind. What with the storm at sea and the passage of time the subject of Willie McNam had been dropped. The passengers’ moment of excitement had been washed away by the storm.

  Len leaned over the rail and watched the owner come up the gangway. The duty officer had seen who it was and for some reason stood back. Len was alone at the gate in the rail with his bucket and broom. The ship was quiet except for the forward hatch which was open and discharging cargo for Port Elizabeth. The one big crane that rode the dockside rail was swinging a crate held in a sling to the stevedores on the dock, the lone crane driver operating his levers perfectly so the crate came down on the dockside as light as a feather.

  Harry Brigandshaw had stopped halfway up the plank to watch, smiling grimly at the crane driver. Then the owner went back to his preoccupation and strode up the last part of the gangway where he stopped and again glared at the crane driver.

  “Why couldn’t you have done that in Cape Town,” he called to the man who was unable to hear. The crane driver ignored him, dangling his line and hook back into the gaping hole for another crate. He had not even seen Harry Brigandshaw at the rail of the ship.

  On an impulse, Len stepped forward, the broom in one hand. The bucket in the other as Harry Brigandshaw finally stepped on board.

  “Excuse me, sir. Could I have a word?”

  “I’m far too busy. Damn all crane drivers. If it isn’t one damn thing it’s another. I need my aeroplane.”

  Len had no idea what the man was talking about but held his ground.

  “I saw the man shot in the Cape Town bar.”

  “So did half the ship by all reports.”

  “No, sir. I saw the shooter. I think he knew you.”

  “I have enough problems for one day. My brother-in-law is a mile under the surface and probably dead. I hope so. To be trapped is worse. They haven’t got anyone out, do you know that? Not in today’s paper which I read standing up… I must make a phone call. Is the shore line attached?”

  “I believe it is so… The man had a full beard and watched the door to your cabin for hours. I asked him if he knew you. Said he’d kill me too. I’m sure it was the same man who shot Willie McNam. The man who shot him was one of our passengers.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “I did.”

  “Describe the man.”

  Len did his best. The duty officer was hovering behind Harry Brigandshaw about to intervene. Len saw he now had the owner’s full attention. He went on quickly.

  “When he fired twice at McNam through the open window into the bar, I heard him shout.”

  “Can you remember what he said?” Harry had gone stone cold for the second time in one day.

  “Something about a wet fish.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Len Merryl.”

  “
You’ll be hearing from me.”

  “I’m only temporary. Getting off in Beira. I’m emigrating to Rhodesia.”

  The last part Len had said to a receding back.

  Then the duty officer intervened and told him to go back to work. He knew he had been right. The man in the full beard and the owner of the ship knew each other. Having got it off his chest, Len felt better knowing he had done the right thing. It was now out of his hands.

  Like all bad days for Harry it came to an end. When he fell asleep that night it was from mental exhaustion imagining Barend trapped down in the dark a mile below the surface of the earth. Cursed with a good imagination Harry could see what was happening, feel the dread of lonely death. As if a conscious line joined him and his childhood friend, he knew his friend Barend was alive and suffering. All thoughts of Fishy Braithwaite were drowned in the horror he knew was tormenting his lifelong friend. Until he finally fell asleep, there was nothing he had been able to do but pray to God. And weep for Barend and somehow a little for himself and everyone else on earth.

  The dreams jumbled all night. He was flying an aeroplane of a type he had never seen before. He shot down a German to find the dead pilot was Tina Pringle, her body mangled. Only her face looking at him with hate… He was in a dark hole and screamed himself awake. There was a tap on his door in the night. He shouted them to go away in his dream and the sky was blue. Too blue. All the time watching for a plane to kill him. All night long he tossed and turned. All night long the crane driver pulled cargo from the hold, arc light flooding the front of the ship. All night Harry abused the crane driver. How much was dream and real, he never knew.

  In the morning, Harry was more tired than when he went to sleep. Still just as impotent. There was nothing more he could do for Brett. Nothing he could do for Barend. If Mervyn Braithwaite came anywhere near him, he was going to kill him even if it meant looking over his shoulder and waiting for the man to come after him for the rest of his life.