‘You could always marry a rich man, you’re way, way pretty enough and quite the nicest person I know?’
‘I don’t want to marry a rich man, I want to marry a man who loves me and me him. I could’ve if I’d wanted, there’s been two or three officers who have proposed to me, from nice families, quite well-to-do, too.’
Ben shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t marry an officer if I were you, my dear. Never know where they’ve been. In my experience they’re a very shallow type of person.’
‘What do you mean? I’m an officer, Ben Teekleman!’
‘Well, nobody’s perfect,’ Ben answers. ‘It’s afternoon tea at the Ritz for the likes of us, my girl. Fatten you up. Two country bumpkins from New Norfolk and Toowoomba, to hell with the nobs, what do you say, eh?’
‘Are you sure, Ben?’ Sarah says, still looking doubtful and suddenly feeling dowdy in her borrowed blue coat, sensible brown lace-up shoes and heavy lisle stockings.
‘Come here, Sarah Atkins,’ Ben commands and takes her in his arms and kisses her, oblivious of who might be looking. ‘I’ve never been surer of anything, I’m only a sergeant-major, but will you marry me?’
‘Oh, Ben. I love you so very much.’
‘When? Next week?’
Sarah pulls away from him and is silent for a while, staring at her hands which are folded in her lap. Then she looks up. ‘No, Ben, after it’s all over. After the war. I’ll marry you and have your children and love you forever, but no one has the right to marry while this is going on.’
Ben too is silent, then he takes her by the hands and looks into her eyes. ‘Sarah Atkins, will you marry me the day after armistice is declared?’
Sarah smiles. ‘On the very hour, Ben Teekleman, while they’re still ringing the church bells.’
‘We need a glass of champagne to celebrate and I know just where to get one.’
‘The Ritz? Are you quite sure, darling?’
‘Don’t you know sergeants-major are never in any doubt about anything, my dearest?’
Chapter Seventeen
BEN AND JOSHUA 1916
‘If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied.’
– Rudyard Kipling
In May 1916, after spending a month at the Monte Video Convalescent Camp near Weymouth, Ben is sent back up to London to A.I.F. Headquarters where the medical officers at Horseferry Road pronounce him, though not without a fair amount of persuasion, fit for France. (‘Sergeant-Major Teekleman, you’ve done enough, there’s plenty to do here in England to see you out.’) He is finally issued with his travel documents and a forty-eight-hour leave pass to commence at five that afternoon. It has only just gone noon which means Ben has five hours to kill and the chief medical officer at the depot kindly signs him out, ‘Go on, hop it, lad, enjoy yourself,’ thus adding the extra time gratuitously to his leave.
Ben calls the hospital at Wandsworth from a telephone box on Horseferry Road and asks to speak to Sister Atkins, hoping Sarah may be able to spend the extra time away with him. He asks to be put through to surgery and when a man’s voice answers, presumably a hospital orderly, he asks again for Sister Atkins. ‘She’s been called into surgery on an emergency,’ the voice says.
‘Damn!’ Ben exclaims.
‘You wouldn’t be Sergeant-Major Ben Teekleman by any chance, would you?’ the voice on the other end enquires.
‘The same,’ Ben replies.
‘Righto then. She’s left a message to say if you’ve been given your medical clearance for France and have a leave pass she’ll meet you at the Eros statue in Piccadilly Circus at four o’clock this afternoon. Don’t worry, Sergeant-Major, she’s a grand lass even if she is an officer, good luck to you. There’ll not be a word spoken about this.’
‘Good onya, thanks mate, tell her I’ll be there with knobs on,’ Ben says this cheerfully so that the voice on the other end won’t sense his disappointment. It would have been the icing on the cake to have the extra time to spend with Sarah.
He smiles to himself, remembering how he’d practised the way he would ask her about sharing his forty-eight-hour leave with him. He’d worked up and rejected a hundred different approaches in his head, though shortlisting some of them first and expressing them aloud to himself, trying to imagine what her reaction would be. At the same time, he’d invented cover-up sentences if she refused. One of these emerged as a favourite: ‘It was in poor taste, my dearest, I am so very sorry, Sarah,’ which seemed to Ben to have a touch of dignity and even sophistication to it and was a damn sight better than simply mumbling, ‘Sorry, it’s just that I was hoping . . .’ which was probably what he’d end up saying because he’d be so nervous and shamefaced he’d forget the rehearsed apology.
When the time came Ben approached the subject carefully. ‘Sarah, my dearest, when I go to France I’ll have forty-eight hours’ leave, do you think you could get the time off?’ Then before she could reply he chickened out and quickly added, ‘The . . . er, I mean, the daylight hours and some of the evening, you could take a taxi back to the nurses’ hostel?’
He was afraid to look at her, afraid of the rejection and of the disappointment he’d see in her eyes. Instead, she took him by both hands so that he was forced to look at her. ‘Ben, I’m not a virgin, there was someone when I was sixteen, a boy my parents were keen on, whose father had the general store.’ She paused, her lovely eyes fixed on his own. ‘Are you very angry?’
‘Angry?’ he replied. ‘No, just very relieved. Seeing we’re confessing to each other, nor am I a virgin, though it wasn’t the storekeeper’s daughter, it was the wife of the farmer next door and I was fifteen at the time.’
‘Does that mean it’s all right for me to stay the night with you?’ she asked a little tremulously.
‘Only if you insist,’ he laughed, then added, ‘I’ll try to find the name of a nice hotel.’
Whereupon she opened her handbag, took out a small piece of folded paper and handed it to Ben. ‘One of the English sisters at the hospital gave it to me. She says it’s nice and clean and not expensive, a boarding house in Paddington. She says the lady who runs it understands about soldiers going to the front and calls it “Doing my little bit for the war effort”.’
Ben took the note and wrote to the woman, enclosing a pound note which was the tariff for two nights including a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs, toast and marmalade and a cup of tea.
With four hours to spare Ben has a sudden inspiration, or, rather, he received a letter from Victoria the previous day in which she asked him when he intended getting engaged. His letters over the last two and a half months to her have been filled with Sarah of whom Victoria obviously approves as she demanded to have a snapshot. They’d found a small photographic studio in Penny Lane and he’d sent off a nice photo of them both. In her latest letter she’d written to say how thin he looked and urged him to eat more and then continued: You both look so happy and your Sarah is quite the prettiest woman, probably much too good for you. My urgent advice is to become betrothed as soon as possible so she can’t get away. Victoria, as usual, had it all planned out.
There’s a rather nice shop in Albermarle Street named Garrard’s which you may care to visit. They will, I feel sure, have a good assortment of engagement rings. I am enclosing a cheque from Grandfather Hawk on Coutts Bank for one thousand pounds, with it is a letter to the bank authorising you, on proof of your identity, to cash it. You should be able to get a simply splendid diamond ring for about three hundred pounds, three or four carats at the very least, and I urge you to spoil her rotten with the remaining money. Take her shopping to Simpson’s or Harrods of Piccadilly in Knightsbridge, a pretty dress, nice shoes, she will choose her own underwear and you won’t like the hat she chooses (men never do). Dare I suggest a glamorous nightdress as well? After all, my dearest brother, you are in London and in love and should make the most of it.
Oh dear, I do so worry about you going to France. I know it’s not fair to say so,
but I cannot help myself, I pray you fail your medical, though just sufficiently to be sent home to fully recover your health or, at the very least, so that you are given a tour of duty away from the front.
News recently to hand from Sir Abraham is that Joshua has been transferred to a fighting unit and is no longer in an ordnance battalion. He didn’t say which one, but he seemed pleased. Men are so stupid. Though, on the other hand, you already know how I felt about him escaping the fighting, thinking some special arrangement had been made. I’m glad I was wrong and Joshua goes up considerably in my estimation.
With several hours to spare before he is to meet Sarah, Ben visits Coutts Bank, identifies himself and cashes Hawk’s cheque. He immediately opens an account in the name of Sarah Atkins for four hundred pounds and hails a taxi to take him to Albermarle Street where he is deposited at the entrance of Garrard’s the jewellers. The top-hatted, brass-buttoned and overcoated doorman looks him over suspiciously as he steps up to the doorway and blocks Ben’s path. ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’ he asks somewhat imperiously.
‘No, do I need one?’
‘It is not unusual, sir. Are you quite sure it is Garrard’s the jewellers you are looking for?’
‘That’s two questions in a row and we haven’t even been introduced. A bit of a nosy parker, ain’t ya?’ Ben says, leaning on his Australian drawl. ‘What is it? That I’m not an officer?’
‘Orstralian are you then, sir?’
‘That’s right, mate, and bloody proud of it. Are you going to let me in or is this conversation going to go on ’til dinner time?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I only wished to avoid embarrassing you.’
‘I’m an Australian, I can’t be embarrassed.’
The doorman grins at this and opens the door. ‘Beg pardon, sir, I ’ope you find what you’re looking for.’
‘So do I, mate,’ Ben says, entering the shop where he is approached by a stout man who has every appearance of having just stepped out of a very hot bathtub. He is an even-coloured bright pink from his shining pate to his clean-shaven chin and has the palest blue eyes Ben has ever seen. His baldness is fringed on three sides with a neatly clipped curtain of snowy hair. Dressed in striped pants and morning coat, his starched white shirt set off with an electric blue silk cravat, the man appears to be in his mid-fifties or perhaps a little older.
He, too, now approaches Ben with one eyebrow slightly arched and then Ben sees that his eyes go to the colour patch on his shoulder with the bronze ‘A’ for Anzac and immediately the man’s expression changes. ‘Good afternoon, sir, may I be of service?’ he asks, bringing a pair of folded pink hands up to his chest.
‘Thank you, yes, I’d like to see a ring.’
‘A ring? And what sort of ring might that be, sir? A signet ring for your good self? A wedding ring, do I hear wedding bells? Or is it, yes, I have an instinct for these things, an engagement ring?’
‘Engagement. For my fiancée,’ Ben says, then corrects himself, ‘to be, that is.’
‘Our congratulations, sir. A diamond, is it?’
Ben nods. ‘Yes, please, not too big, I don’t want to, you know, embarrass her.’
The floor manager, or whoever he is, for he is plainly senior to the other staff who seem to be standing around trying to look busy with only one other person in the shop, smiles despite himself. ‘Sir, it is my experience that a young lady is seldom embarrassed by the size of the diamond on her finger.’ He seems to hesitate a moment then says in a not unkindly manner, ‘I do hope we can accommodate you, sir, but I must tell you that there has been rather a rush on our diamond rings of late and we have no stones left under thirty pounds. Perhaps you could try Hatton Gardens, I am told that there you may obtain what is called a “soldier’s stone”, a very nice little ring for under five pounds.’
Ben smiles to himself. Unlike the doorman, at least this old bloke is trying to let him down lightly. ‘I’d like to see a two or three carat, round brilliant cut, a “D” flawless, forty-six-facet diamond set in twenty-two-carat gold, nothing too fancy, mind. Like I said, I shouldn’t want her to think I was trying to show off, but if I cop it in France, my girl will have a bit of a legacy.’ All this information comes from Victoria’s letter to him and Ben is quietly proud of the authoritative manner in which he delivers her instructions.
The shop assistant, despite an attempt to retain his composure, is obviously taken aback. ‘A “D” flawless? Yes, of course. Certainly, sir.’ He gives Ben a small bow. ‘My name is Johnson, Jack Johnson, I am the manager here at Garrard’s.’
‘Jack Johnson, same as the heavyweight champ, eh? Nice to meet you, Mr Johnson.’ Ben stretches out his hand. ‘Ben . . . Ben Teekleman.’ Johnson accepts Ben’s hand in a surprisingly firm grip.
‘Teekleman? Teekleman? Name rings a bell.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Ben says doubtfully. ‘Not too many of us Teeklemans about.’
‘May I suggest a private office, Mr Teekleman? Perhaps a cup of tea, not quite the sherry hour, but perhaps we can send the boy out for a beer?’
‘Cuppa tea be nice,’ Ben says, suddenly enjoying himself. He is shown into a small oak-panelled office which is obviously set up for no other purpose than to show important clients the shop’s premium merchandise. It has two heavily studded, uncomfortable-looking club chairs upholstered in green Spanish leather with a small display table between them. A second, slightly larger table is placed to the left of his chair and Ben correctly supposes this is for the tea service. There is a picture of the King on the wall as well as the Garrard’s Letters Patent Royal framed beside it. The carpet is of a slightly lighter shade of green than the chairs.
‘Please, do sit down,’ Johnson says, indicating one of the leather chairs, then, ‘If you’ll excuse me just a moment, Mr Teekleman?’ Jack Johnson bows slightly again and leaves, to return several minutes later waving a sheet of paper triumphantly. Walking behind him is a pale, sickly-looking, pimply-faced young assistant, also in morning dress, carrying a tray draped in black velvet.
‘Ah, here it is, I thought so, I have a letter from Miss Victoria Teekleman of Hobart, Tasmania, received . . . let me see,’ Johnson glances down at the letter, ‘two weeks ago. In it she suggests we may have the pleasure of a visit from you.’ Johnson looks up, plainly pleased with himself. Whatever Victoria has said in the letter has given him all the confirmation he needs to provide Ben with the full Garrard’s favoured-client treatment.
The young assistant sets down the tray upon which are placed several tiny envelopes. Jack Johnson, sitting in the remaining chair, opens the tiny flap of one of them and rolls a diamond onto the velvet tray. ‘A lovely Kimberley blue–white of two and a half carats, Mr Teekleman.’
‘No, no, you misunderstand me, Mr Johnson. I wish to see a ring. You see, I need it this afternoon. I only have forty-eight hours’ leave before I go to France.’
‘It is most unusual to make up jewellery with a stone of this quality without first ascertaining the customer’s exact requirements,’ Johnson says a little primly.
‘My exact requirements are a ring with a diamond,’ Ben points to the beautiful gem sparkling on the velvet cloth, ‘bigger than that one and in about an hour.’
Johnson appears to be thinking, then comes to a decision, ‘I have an order made up for a client,’ he pauses and then, unable to resist the temptation to name-drop, adds, ‘well, actually it’s the Duchess of . . . ’ He pauses again. ‘Well, never mind, it is not required until late next week when she comes up to stay at Claridges’.’ Then he adds gratuitously, ‘She has given over her London residence to the military, I believe.’ Johnson frowns suddenly. ‘Oh dear, a complication occurs to me.’ Ben remains silent. ‘If I recall correctly, it has two baguette diamonds to the side of the main stone?’
‘May I see it, please?’ Ben asks.
‘Why certainly, sir, though on the hush-hush, we shouldn’t like it to get out, I believe it’s a surprise for her daughter.’
&n
bsp; ‘Tight as a chook’s bum,’ Ben says.
‘I beg your pardon, what was that, sir?’
‘I promise not to mention it to the duchess or her daughter,’ Ben grins.
‘Well then,’ Johnson says, ‘if you are prepared to accept this little rearrangement, we can remove the canary diamond at present in it and replace it with the one of your choosing. The transfer will take no more than half an hour, sir.’
‘Splendid, Mr Johnson, let me see the ring.’
Johnson presses a small electric bell set into the oak panelling and a few moments later the same pimply-faced lad appears. ‘I want you to bring me Number 400 from the safe, and ask Mr James to accompany you.’
The young bloke departs and Ben points to the envelopes on the velvet tray. ‘Perhaps you can show me more of these, Mr Johnson.’
Over a cup of tea, which arrives shortly after the departure of the young shop assistant, Ben selects a beautiful three-carat diamond. The lad returns with a small brown envelope and Johnson spills the duchess’s ring onto the velvet surface.
Ben picks it up and examines it in a perfunctory manner, it is immediately apparent that it is a beautiful ring. ‘Yeah, this will do nicely,’ he says, laying the ring back down on the tray.
He waits for the three-carat diamond he has selected to be set into the duchess’s ring, whereupon he pays Johnson two hundred and seventy-five pounds in large, white five pound notes and obtains a certificate of authenticity and a receipt from the now entirely obsequious Mr Johnson.
‘If it doesn’t fit you may bring it in for an adjustment in the morning, Mr Teekleman,’ Johnson assures Ben as he walks him to the door. A few paces short he suddenly halts. ‘I couldn’t help but notice your Anzac “A”, sir. My son, Roger, was a corporal in the Royal Engineers and was killed three days after landing at Suvla Bay.’
Solomon's Song Page 57