On the Brink of Tears

by Peter Rimmer

  When they reached the built-up area on the outskirts of London, dusk was falling. By the time they reached her father’s flat in Park Lane, it was dark. Smithers, her father’s long-time manservant, showed her the spare bedroom. When she had finished putting her few things from her travelling case in the drawers, she went down the hallway. Smithers had made them sandwiches and hot chocolate. After the previous sleepless night, Genevieve was half-asleep, barely able to keep her eyes open.

  “Go to bed, Genevieve, before you fall down. See you in the morning. We’ll get you some more clothes from the left-luggage office tomorrow. Do you have anything to do this week?”

  “Press interviews most probably. I was to report at Elstree when I arrived in England. My mail will be at the studio. Publicity is all the rage after making a film. It’s part of my contract. Sleep tight.”

  3

  Bruno Kannberg of the Daily Mirror was the first to phone; the studio had given him the number in Park Lane. Paul Dexter had contacted every newspaper in London on instructions from Gerry Hollingsworth once Elstree knew the star of the film was in town. Bruno knew the connection between Harry Brigandshaw and Genevieve. He intended bringing the two stories together, the lost and found war hero and the beautiful film star who had once been his niece by marriage, to give the article more reader interest, connecting the fear of a new war in Europe to give a separate layer to his story.

  Earlier in the morning Bruno had been called into his new editor’s office, a grim weather-beaten man who had worked his way through every aspect of journalism and went by the unfortunate name of Arthur Bumley.

  “Why me, Mr Bumley? I don’t do the arts anymore.”

  “You’ll want to do this one, Kannberg. Saw her once in the flesh at a theatre function. She wasn’t the star then but the only one worth looking at. She has that rare magnetism that makes some women stand out. Unless she marries a rich man, she’ll go far in film. Don’t you remember the Harry Brigandshaw saga that hooked readers for weeks? Brigandshaw’s first wife, who was shot by his old CO from the Royal Flying Corps when he flipped his lid after getting out of the loony bin, was Genevieve’s aunt. And it gets better. Her father is heir to the St Clair Barony, the next Lord St Clair. She was born to a barmaid from the Running Horses at Mickleham during the war, according to the feed from Dexter at Elstree Studio. I’m giving this one to you and not Featherstone. He can do the film crit if you don’t want to go any further. The premiere’s in November in Leicester Square. Enjoy yourself. She’s staying with the father in Park Lane, the rotten cad, getting barmaids pregnant. I wish I was so unlucky. The last barmaid I made a pass at threw a drink in my face.”

  “Where’s the mother?”

  “She’s a drunk.”

  “Might be a story. By the way, Sir Oswald bloody Mosley is stirring shit again. He’s organising a fascist march through the East End. The locals are building barricades in the streets to stop them. The police think over one hundred thousand are coming out for it. Some people are far more scared of the commies than the fascists. Mosley thinks he’s going to make himself Chancellor of England and kiss Hitler’s arse. He’s a damn good rabble-rouser. Watched him once at Hyde Park Corner. Had the mob tearing each other apart in less than an hour. What makes some men such powerful orators?”

  “When’s the march?”

  “We don’t know. This week, next week or the month after next. Mosley keeps his cards close to his chest. He came back from Germany last week, that much we do know.”

  “Did he see Hitler?”

  “Who knows?”

  “All these politicians ever want is power and don’t care how they get it, once they find an axe to grind. People out of jobs and hungry make easy prey, poor sods. Can you imagine being put out of a job and seeing your kids go hungry? Hitler’s put the Germans back to work, we can’t deny that. One day people are fascists, next day they are screaming democracy if it suits their purpose. Churchill’s changed parties more than once to suit his political career. One day he’ll be prime minister. Sometimes you don’t know who is right and who is wrong. In Russia under communism everyone has a job, that’s the law, whether they have any work to do or not, according to William Smythe of the Daily Mail; but then who can believe the newspapers? We all feed off each other, including the church when it gets a chance. They say the King is pro-Hitler after what the commies did to his cousin Tsar Nicholas. It’s inclined to tighten a man’s bottom sphincter when they shoot members of your family in the name of some bright new way to run society that in the end won’t work any better than the rest of them.”

  “May I go, Mr Bumley?”

  “Bugger off. You can have another go at Mosely later. I don’t trust that bastard.”

  They had arranged to meet in Hyde Park under the trees opposite her father’s block of flats so Bruno’s photographer could get some shots, the Daily Mirror preferring to use photographs to attract readers rather than words. When they met face to face the girl to Bruno was far more attractive than her photographs. Featherstone, the paper’s entertainment editor, had said the extra quality was more visible on a moving film where it was easier for the camera to penetrate the eyes to see what was going on behind. “You can see it in the eyes, Bruno, she’s telling everyone she wants to fuck them.”

  “Your eyes are different,” he said to Genevieve, realising again what Featherstone had meant.

  “So are my father’s. Identical, in fact. Daddy’s one eye has gone much darker over the years. Almost coal black. There’s a flaw in the family genes passed down the generations. Anyway, at least I'm sure that way he really is my father. Mother was a barmaid.”

  “Do you see your mother?”

  “Of course. She’d love to give you an interview if you thought your readers would be interested. But I ask you not to.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Chelsea. In a flat. My father pays for everything. Always has.”

  “Can I interview your father?”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr Kannberg. He’s next in line to be the eighteenth Baron St Clair of Purbeck. Aristocrats don’t give interviews to the press, let alone the Daily Mirror.”

  “But you are of aristocratic descent and you are giving me an interview. Do you mind if Stanley over there takes some shots?”

  “I’m a bastard, Mr Kannberg. You can quote me. Just keep my grandfather, as well as the St Clairs, out of your story. He’s the sweetest man alive and he’s dying of cancer. With God’s help, he’ll be alive to come to the premiere of Robin Hood. He’s promised me he’ll come but he doesn’t know about you chaps. So I want your word of honour. When he’s dead you can say what you like about me and my mother… Okay, Stanley, fire away. How does this look?”

  When Genevieve returned to the flat, hopeful she had not let down her father’s family, there were eleven messages on the silver tray taken by Smithers, his bad handwriting barely legible. Most of the callers wanted interviews. Paul Dexter and his public relations team had been working harder than she expected. Her father was out somewhere when she looked around the flat, finding only Smithers in his upstairs room.

  “How am I going to see all these people, Smithers? The last interview took me two hours; a nice young man from the Mirror whose father hailed from Latvia, wherever that may be. Did you know there were White Russians as well as the Reds? The Whites lost so that probably explains why I never heard of them.”

  “Why don’t you invite them all to the flat, Miss Genevieve? Then you can kill all the birds with one stone. Excuse me, there goes the phone again. I tried referring them to Elstree Studio but that apparently isn’t good enough. There are, I am now told, a number of film producers who work out of Elstree Studios and they all have different phone numbers. Mr Dexter and his staff are just one of many.”

  “My father will have a heart attack if I brought them here.”

  “Let me talk to him after I answer the phone. Or you can have them all running around the Park.”

 
“Are you enjoying this, Smithers?”

  “I rather think I am. I made a fresh pot of tea when I saw you cross the road.”

  “Were you watching through the window?”

  “You can never be too careful with young men these days, Miss Genevieve. Especially from the press, particularly the Daily Mirror. I rather think the Daily Mirror has never crossed this threshold and never will.”

  “You’re a snob, Smithers.”

  “Of course… The Honourable Merlin St Clair residence, may I help you?... Yes, sir. She is in the flat… I’ll tell her. Good afternoon.”

  “What will you tell me?”

  “That Mr William Smythe is on his way. He only just heard you are in London. Something about a delayed message from your Mr Dexter.”

  “He’s a famous foreign correspondent. What does he want with me and Robin Hood?”

  “Probably your company. He seemed excited you were back in London.”

  In the pile of other messages there was one from Horatio Wakefield and one from Paul Dexter saying Gregory L’Amour had called from America four times. She put the sheaf of messages back on the silver tray.

  “If Mr L’Amour should ever get this number, Smithers, tell him I am on my way back to America.”

  “You’re leaving us!”

  “No, I’m leaving Gregory L’Amour.”

  William Smythe had not received the message direct from Paul Dexter. He had gone round to the new, three-storey house in Chelsea where Janet Bray, now Janet Wakefield, had her speech therapy practice on the ground floor. Horatio had bought the house for cash with the money he had made in Berlin.

  It was young Harry’s christening the next day and William was to be one of the godfathers along with Harry Brigandshaw, after whom the boy was to be named. Pippa Tucker, who had attended the Central School of Speech and Drama with Janet, was to be the only godmother. William had brought a pair of ivory hairbrushes on loan from Harrods for Janet’s approval before having the boy’s initials carved into the ivory and inlaid in black.

  “If you don’t like them I’ll take them back. Silver spoons and rattles are all very well but they outlast their usefulness for the recipient.”

  “His name is Harry.”

  “With luck the hairbrushes will go with Harry through his life long after I am dead.”

  “Thoughtful of you, William. They’ll do just fine. So nice of you to come to the christening since you missed your best friend’s wedding.”

  “I was in Moscow interviewing Stalin.”

  “Nonsense, you didn’t get within a mile of Stalin. Nobody does. More people have tried to kill him than tried to kill the Tsar, and we all know what happened to the Tsar.”

  “He was shot, not assassinated, with his family.”

  “He is still dead.”

  “You are still mad with me for taking Horatio to Berlin to make some money. How do you like the house? When’s your next appointment? Must be more convenient having your practice at the bottom of your house. You can be a wife, mother and woman of business all at the same time.”

  “In half an hour.”

  “That is my point. Under your old arrangement you would have stayed down the road at your practice doing nothing, waiting for the patient. You should thank me more often for putting good order into your life. Now you can have your cake and eat it. So the initials to go on the brushes?”

  “The hairbrushes look very nice. I’d better go. That’s Harry bawling his head off upstairs. The nurse can do everything but she can’t feed him with mother’s milk.”

  “There you go again. Now run upstairs and feed the brat before your patient arrives.”

  “He’s not a brat. He’s your godson. Did you know Genevieve is back in town? Horatio had a message in his office from her studio. He phones me every hour to find out if the baby is still all right.”

  “Is there something wrong with Harry?”

  “Why should there be? Genevieve is staying with her father in Park Lane. The phone number is in the book under Merlin St Clair. You can use the phone if you want to. If she’s at home you can order a taxi. I saw that look in your eye, William, when I brought up her name. What you need is a wife, and that doesn’t mean a film actress half your age.”

  “She’s not half my age.”

  “Give or take ten years. I worked it out using Genevieve’s real age. That’s cradle snatching for an old man like you.”

  “I can’t get her out of my mind.”

  “So you always tell us. Let yourself out. If the patient arrives, let him in and put him in the waiting room. Give my love to Genevieve, you poor besotted fool. I want an invite to the premiere. Horatio says it’s November at Leicester Square. He’s going to interview her for the Mail when she returns his call. Oh hell, there goes the phone again. That’ll be Horatio. Pick up the call and talk some sense into him. He’s obsessed something is going to happen to his baby. Can you imagine what he’ll be like when we have eleven of them?”

  “There’s going to be a war.”

  “There always is. Right through history. Now answer the bloody phone.”

  Half an hour later, and with the certainty that there was no fool like an old fool, William rang the doorbell of Merlin St Clair’s flat having navigated Hughes the doorman downstairs in the foyer before being allowed into the lift. Smithers opened the door with a smirk on his face; in his experience servants, like mothers, always knew what was going on. The look told William clearly he was going nowhere with Genevieve.

  For a moment, he thought of turning away from the open front door and going off with his tail between his legs. Then she appeared just behind Smithers’s shoulder looking more radiant than ever and sent his mind into panic. He had been right after all; she was the most exciting woman he had ever seen.

  “Hello, Will. Won’t you come in? What’s the matter?”

  “Janet had a baby. I’m the godfather with Harry Brigandshaw. They called him Harry, of course,” said William to cover his nerves.

  “Good for her. How’s Horatio taking it? Are you here to give me an interview so you can syndicate it round the world? You could if you wanted to. Why is it famous people never realise they are famous? Come in and stop dithering. You remind me of Louis Casimir my esteemed producer, now known by the Anglican name of Gerry Hollingsworth. The only thing he didn’t do was have himself christened. Are you up to the job of godfather with your reputation? You will be expected to put the poor child on the straight and narrow.”

  “I’d love to try an interview if it would help your career. I go to Warsaw on Thursday. The Poles are worried Hitler wants to annex Poland with its large German population.”

  “I’m sure you can fit in a teeny-weeny story about Genevieve before you go. Why don’t we go out to dinner tonight? Just the two of us. Seeing old friends after America is special.”

  “Didn’t you like America?”

  “Of course. I just like England better. Have a cup of tea. Do you know in America they make tea straight into the cup? Disgusting. Tastes revolting. William! What on earth is the matter with you, are you coming in or not? My father isn’t here if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  The invitation for William to visit Warsaw had come through old Isaac, the Jew who had forged his American passport in the name of Brad Sikorski and sent him back to Berlin on the ill-fated mission that saw Horatio beaten up and imprisoned in the farmhouse by Hitler’s Brownshirts. The message was from the same Fritz Wendel William had presumed dead, having received no further contact from his Jewish informant who had given him so much story on both his visits to Berlin in 1933.

  According to old Isaac, the Jewish network that stretched across Europe from Moscow to London wanted William to make the world aware of Germany’s intent to incorporate the ethnic Germans living in Poland into a greater Germany, the way Bismarck had forged the Principalities of Germany into one state during the previous century. Everything Hitler did, according to old Isaac, was aimed at building up Germa
n patriotism to give the Germans back their pride after their defeat in 1918. German East and West Africa had been ceded to Britain by the League of Nations, the first conquests of Germany in an attempt to compete with the British Empire in the previous century. William said more than once in his syndicated articles that empire was the real reason for the Great War, not some Austro-Hungarian being assassinated by a Serb in Bosnia that finally set the Great War in terrible motion.

  William thought he was being used by the Jews but that did not matter to him when he knew it produced good copy; like most writers, a journalist was only as good as his last story. Everyone, wherever he looked in the world, had their own hidden agenda, their own reasons for outwitting someone else if the someone else was vulnerable; the British government called it diplomacy.

  “Everyone is plain selfish, Genevieve, something they always try to hide. No one ever does anything for the good of the other person however much they make it look like they are doing him a favour. The Jews have a lot of money and want to keep it. The rest are trying to take it away from them. Some fools think we human animals have principles which sadly, like so many of the other things we were taught as kids, is a lie. I’m boring you. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not. I got sick of small talk over dinner.”

  “You’re not interested in me as a man, are you?”

  “No I’m not.”

  “And you never were?”

  “No.”

  “Now you’re going to talk about staying friends.”

  “I need a good mind to make sense of life. Most people tell me what they think I want to hear.”

  “You could have said you loved me.”

  “And wasted your time. Why does sex always get in the way?”

  “I won’t answer an obvious question, only to say without it none of us would be here in this restaurant. Do you want some more coffee?”