by Peter Rimmer
“Just right.”
“I meant for the play.”
“I know.”
For the first time she tried her schoolgirl giggle on the man. Just a little one. Like the rest of them, it worked as intended. The final thrust into the old goat’s groin. After that, Bristol was never mentioned again the whole evening.
There was always a price to pay, that much Merlin St Clair had known all his life. He could give her money but never his class. She would marry some man in the lower class or become a rich man’s mistress like her mother. The fact her grandfather was a peer of the realm meant nothing in England. She was born out of wedlock. Beyond the pale. Something to be used, never cherished.
As Hughes, the doorman of his block of flats on Park Lane, pressed the lift button for him he gave the man a smile.
“Smithers is out, sir.”
“I gave him the night off, Hughes.” Smithers was his man. The gentleman’s gentleman who ran his flat.
Upstairs he let himself in, not sure what to do. It was her life. Ever since she was a child, she had known what she was doing. The thought of Oscar Fleming touching his daughter made his mind twist and turn with physical pain… But what right had he to interfere? What was the difference between Brett Kentrich, star of the stage, who had used Fleming the same way to make her career? A career that ended in a brilliant marriage to Christopher Marlowe, a man of Merlin’s own class.
“It’s happened before, actresses marrying into the aristocracy. For some reason they don’t ask famous actresses about the legitimacy of their parents.”
Miserable, Merlin poured himself a stiff whisky, conscious that Smithers had also been at the bottle. Probably with Hughes before Hughes went on duty. The man’s breath had smelt of whisky.
“Poor sod standing at a cold door all night. Who’s to blame him?… The world has always been bloody unfair.”
Trying not to let his imagination run riot, Merlin took his drink to the fire and sat down in his armchair. Smithers had damped down the fire. Opening the vent to let in the draught, Merlin poked the fire and watched the hot coals break into a blue flame… She was now on her own. A grown woman of seventeen. In a less civilised world, he would have gone and shot the old bastard for even thinking of seducing his daughter… There was always a price to pay, which in that case would be hanging by his neck from a rope… And where would that get Genevieve?
“It’s all my fault,” he said miserably as he stared at the fire.
He had never married. Too selfish, of that much he was certain. He was forty-six years old and alone staring at the fire. At least Harry Brigandshaw had his wife and children coming back to him, according to the morning paper he had read with his breakfast. All he had was Genevieve. There was no point in talking to her mother Esther, who had never read a book in her life. It seemed ironical that Esther was happy with his money and he was miserable. She had never wanted very much. Enough to put a roof over her head and keep her in gin. Knowing too much in life was a curse. The ignorant were more blessed. They could think as far as the next meal and the next glass of gin. She had not even seemed worried at Genevieve moving out on her own. They looked at their child with different eyes. What was abhorrent to him was the start of a success story to Esther. The road to fame and fortune.
Pouring himself another stiff drink, he hoped Harry would be happy back with Tina and the children. Sitting back, Merlin sighed at the ceiling. Harry had always been the better man. Then he thought of Genevieve somewhere with Oscar Fleming and his mind began to seethe all over again.
By the time he went to bed, he knew he was tight as a tick. At least his mind had floated off in all its tangents… It was her life after all like everyone else’s.
When Smithers came back just after midnight the flat was quiet as a tomb. The fire had gone out. A second bottle of whisky was open on the table and half empty. Merlin St Clair’s evening at the theatre had not been a success, that much was obvious to Smithers.
Pouring himself a drink, Smithers sat down in Merlin’s chair and drank with appreciation. Shortly afterwards he fell fast asleep. When he woke he was stiff and cold in the dark of the night. Yawning, he took himself off to his bed, washing the whisky glasses in the kitchen.
Part 3
Berlin — December 1933
1
Berlin was bitterly cold. The room William Smythe rented above the bicycle shop was less than a mile from the burned-out Reichstag. The only way to keep warm was to stay in bed fully clothed under a pile of blankets wearing two pairs of socks. The gas heater had little effect even when there was any gas. The paraffin heater he had installed was no better.
It was his thirtieth birthday. No one had wished him a happy birthday. Letters never reached him from London, ever since the National Socialist Party had warred with the communists on the streets, forcing President von Hindenburg to appoint Hitler Chancellor of Germany.
Will’s reports to Reuters were smuggled out of the country by hand. If he wasn’t making so much money he would have packed his bags. Two men followed him wherever he went, twice beating up Germans who had given him information.
The bang on the door made Will get out of bed and hurriedly put on his shoes. The door burst open. Brownshirts pushed past each other screaming German Will could not understand. They quickly had his hands behind his back and frogmarched him out of the room. He was lucky to be properly clothed with his passport and British money in his jacket pocket. Expecting the worst was the way he survived.
“I’m British,” he kept shouting as they pushed him out onto the street.
Passers-by took no notice, crossing the road or averting their eyes, every man for himself. In the street, they beat him up, kicking him on the ground with hobnailed boots. The road on his cheek was ice cold, his blood quickly freezing. Four of them threw him into a van and took him to the railway station, his money and passport still in his pocket.
“Happy Birthday, Will.”
One of the men hit him across the face for talking. In the train, the men pushed him onto the floor of the compartment. When the train moved out of the station, they were still in the compartment with Will on the floor.
At Hamburg, the four men took Will from the train and put him on a Danish freighter. The men stayed on the dockside until the boat sailed. The Danish captain spoke good English.
“You, my friend, are one of the lucky ones. Best you keep out of Germany. What did you do?”
“I’m a journalist.”
“Then you are very lucky.”
“It’s my birthday.”
“Consider the trip my birthday present. Come down to my cabin for schnapps. Your face looks terrible. My name is Captain Preisler, welcome aboard… Did you leave much behind?”
“Very little.”
A twin-engine aircraft flew Will from Copenhagen to Croydon Airport south of London where he filed a report the next day, only just able to see out of his eyes. The story was syndicated across the world. Freelance journalism had made him rich. The byline William Smythe was worth money in America where Glen Hamilton of the Denver Telegraph had syndicated Will’s work ever since Will broke the story of Harry Brigandshaw.
Now safely out of Germany after six months hiding away in the room over the bicycle shop, Will could tell the truth without fear for his life. Only when everything had gone out on the wire did Will begin to shake with fear. His temper writing the story had kept his body in check.
From Croydon, Will took the train up to London. People avoided looking at his face. From Waterloo Station he took a taxi to the flat he had once shared with Horatio Wakefield.
When Horatio opened the door to his flat, Will stepped inside. Janet Bray took one look and telephoned her doctor.
The next morning, while Will was still asleep on his old pull-out couch, Horatio read what had happened to his friend in the Sunday Times. Only then did Horatio begin to shiver, his teacup rattling on the saucer, his hand unable to bring the cup to his lips.
&nb
sp; “You never appreciate what you have until you lose it,” said Will from the couch bed. “You have no idea how good it is to be back in England. Where’s Janet?”
“She doesn’t live here. Anyway, she’ll be at work. The doctor said you have a cracked rib and dislocated jaw.”
“My teeth wouldn’t close together.”
“He pulled your jaw straight last night… Is it really as bad as you write in the paper, Will?”
“The communists tried to take over. German industrialists paid the Nazis to fight the communists in the streets. Faust. Pure Faust. The Jews with the money are now the target, too few of them to give Hitler trouble. It’s always been popular to steal from the rich and give it to the poor. What German industry was trying to avoid. Russia is worse, so they say.”
“And the rest of Europe?”
“We’ll have to fight. Re-arm. Why Hitler needs the likes of Krupp, who are making him guns. They want to conquer the world. The people of Germany want revenge and their pride back. That man can talk a mob into a frenzy.”
“Which is worse, Stalin or Hitler? How are you feeling?”
“Bruised. My pride mostly. When the law doesn’t work for you it’s scary.”
“Are you going back?”
“Later. Under a different passport.”
“They’ll kill you without British protection.”
“Means nothing in Berlin. You are either on Hitler’s side or his thugs will bash your head in for you. The Danish captain said I was lucky.”
“Then don’t go back.”
“I’m pissed off. If we appease him, turn a blind eye, he’ll swallow the whole British Empire which will please the Americans. They want to throw the empire on the garbage heap so they can trade with our colonies.”
“Let someone else get their heads bashed in.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Did I wish you a happy birthday?”
“No, you didn’t. Why are you not at work?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“I’m not sure even which year it is.”
“1933. December. Two years since you wrote about Harry Brigandshaw and went freelance. Will, I’m becoming the poor relation. Janet expects to make a thousand pounds next year. You’ve paid off your overdraft from the ’29 crash and I’m still getting exactly the same piddling salary.”
“I told you to go freelance.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Go back to Germany with me. We can watch each other’s backs.”
“Even the idea makes me break into a cold sweat.”
“I’ll split the fees with you right down the line. Being alone in Berlin for six months was unpleasant. Only Fritz Wendel spoke English.”
“Who’s Fritz Wendel?”
“One of my sources. He’s a Jew.”
“Why doesn’t he get out?”
“No money. Only the rich Jews are going to America. Hitler wants the houses and factories of the rich. A poor man is of no interest to a thief.”
“How do you see it ending?”
“We’ll have to blow his bollocks off… Hitler’s, not Fritz Wendel’s.” Will was trying to smile through his broken face.
“When will war break out?”
“When Hitler’s ready with a new navy and air force. When he’s made sure America will sit on the fence again. When he’s sure the Russians have enough problems of their own… If it’s Sunday, why is Janet working?”
“Some of her patients can only get away on weekends. Having a stutter is not like seeing the doctor. Her rooms are down the road from her flat. The receptionist works for three of them, on the fringe of the medical profession, only she doesn’t come in on a Sunday.”
“No wonder your lady is getting rich.”
“When do you want to go back to Germany?”
“When the bruises are gone. When I’ve seen Genevieve. When you and I have got drunk together.”
“If I want to marry Janet I’ve got to do something about money.”
“Just don’t tell her first. Women are funny.”
“She thinks we have enough money as we are.”
“I’ve always wanted to marry a rich woman.”
“Maybe for a while. After that I’d feel an idiot. A man has to provide for his family or he isn’t a man.”
“Well said, partner.”
While Will was trying to drink a hot cup of tea through swollen lips, twenty miles away Tinus Oosthuizen was reading the same article in the Sunday Times just read by Horatio Wakefield. He was standing in front of the fire in the morning room of Hastings Court, the front of his body boiling hot, his back cold from the east wind rattling the French doors.
Outside the day was bleak, not a leaf on the trees, the wind howling from the direction of Headley Common where Tinus had taken an early morning walk with his Uncle Harry, both muffled up against the winter cold. No one else was down, even the children preferring to stay in their warm beds, which for Tinus was a blessing.
Halfway through the story of the reporter himself being beaten up by thugs, Tinus lost interest and turned to the sports page. Coming from Elephant Walk deep in the African bush, Tinus had never heard of Hitler. Berlin he knew from his geography lessons. There was nothing in the paper about South African cricket and English football bored him to tears.
Turning seventeen in six weeks, what was going on in the streets of Germany or the football pitches of England was of little interest. Throwing the paper on the sofa, Tinus went to the window and looked out over the windswept lawns; it was a bad day for flying, the other passion in his life after cricket.
Tinus heard his friend Andre Cloete come into the morning room without turning round.
“There you are. Looking all over the house. Did you go outside or something with your Uncle Harry? Saw two bent figures earlier from my bedroom window. This old house is freezing… Anything in the paper?”
Tinus turned from the window and smiled at Andre Cloete. Andre was down from Oxford for the Christmas holiday, staying at Hastings Court for the first time.
“Nothing. Uncle Harry has promised to teach me how to fly. When I come up next year, I am going to join the University Air Squadron. I need a private pilot’s licence to get into the squadron. Do you know anything about the Oxford University Air Squadron?”
“Not a thing. Where’s your Uncle Harry?”
“Up in the bedroom. His wife’s got a cold. Luckily, the monsters are still in bed.”
“They are terrible. What’s on the menu for today?”
“I didn’t think you would want to go for a walk. Uncle Harry wanted to know all about Elephant Walk. Poor chap really hates the English weather. Today’s pretty much as you see it half the year. Saturday he’s taking the two of us to the theatre. We’ll spend the night in the West End at a hotel. A friend of Uncle Harry’s daughter is an actress. Apparently, it’s a new show and needs all the support it can get. Going up to London will be fun. Uncle Harry financed the show. Her last play flopped after three months. This one is a comedy and we get to go backstage.”
“Did you read this, Tinus? The reporter himself got beaten up. That’s a turn-up for the books.”
Andre Cloete had retrieved the paper from the sofa and was reading standing up next to the fire.
“Some of it.”
“Is the girl pretty?”
“A real smasher, according to Uncle Harry… Do you think there is going to be another war?”
“Who the hell cares? We’re Afrikaans.”
“My mother was English.”
“Your mother is Rhodesian.”
“Uncle Harry says we can take the guns out and shoot rabbits.”
Andre Cloete began to laugh, throwing the paper back onto the sofa; he too did not relate to William Smythe’s article in the Sunday Times. To Andre, Berlin was too far away from his house in South Africa.
“What’s so funny?”
“The last thing I shot on the family farm was a male lion.”
“Why did you shoot it? You can’t eat a lion. Uncle Harry says you should never kill anything you are not going to eat.”
“The lion was eating the cattle so it made sense. And one of the workers’ legs.”
“Poor sod… I’m starving. Let’s go and find some breakfast… I didn’t tell you yesterday when you came down into the country but it’s come through.”
“What has, Tinus?... What are we getting for breakfast?”
“My Rhodes Scholarship. Just as well as the farm isn’t making much money. Since the war ended, the price of tobacco has dropped by half, according to grandfather. Did you know this house was once his? It’s belonged to the Mandervilles for hundreds of years.”
“So has Venterskraal. Ten generations of Cloetes. Oh, and jolly well done. They treat us Rhodes Scholars at Oxford rather specially. Cecil Rhodes would have been proud of you, you being Rhodesian. Did you get the one allocated to Bishops? Thought you would. Cricket and rugby teams. The top three in class. Makes sense. All-rounders, that’s what Rhodes said in his will… What are you going to read?”
“I was going to read geology, like Uncle Harry. The headmaster says I should read PPE, philosophy, politics and economics, if I want to join Anglo-American. Geologists are too specialist and never get into management where it counts.”
“Have you told your Uncle Harry?”
“Not yet. It’s a whole year before I go up. Anything can happen in a year. According to that chap in the paper, there’s going to be another war in Europe.”
“Doesn’t affect us, Tinus.”
“But it might affect Oxford if the Germans win.”
“Then you tell them your grandfather was a Boer general, hanged by the British for being a Cape Boer and going out with G J Scheepers. The Germans were on our side during the Anglo-Boer war.”
“Both my mother and grandmother were English.”
“It’s the male line that counts. You’re an Afrikaner, Tinus Oosthuizen. The Germans will love you. Just don’t say so when you come up to Oxford next year… That’s bacon I smell. And coffee.”