On the Brink of Tears

by Peter Rimmer

  “I want a case study, Tinus. A feasibility study on whether we can make money out of oranges which will let us diversify out of tobacco, maize and cattle. You will have to look at both ends of the equation, there on the farm and here in England. You will have to price everything from what we will get for the exported crop to the cost of machinery imported from England and landed on the farm, the entire range of machinery and equipment to crush the oranges and extract the oil from the peel. I think what’s left over in pulp can still be used by feeding it to the cattle, the beef frozen and the meat sent back to England; nothing must be wasted.

  “In exchange for your hard work I will pay your return passage and your living expenses. Six weeks should be enough to get you out and back if you start your inquiries in England before you get on the boat. I want you to be my eyes. Tembo will help as much as Ralph Madgwick. If the dam is going to work financially I want to start as soon as possible. It will have to be a concrete and steel dam on the site Tembo will show you as an earth dam would break in the small gorge in the hills. It will have to be a narrow, high dam not a low long one where the river winds round the hills… Are you up to it, Tinus?”

  “Sometimes I get so homesick for Africa it actually hurts.”

  “Don’t I know the feeling. That’s settled… Those dogs are enjoying themselves.”

  4

  While Tinus Oosthuizen was trying to work out how two years of economics equipped him to write the financial evaluation of a major project, concluding his Uncle Harry was using the dam project as an excuse to give him a holiday at home without having to appear magnanimous, twelve miles away at Redhill Aerodrome John Woodall, who had tested Tinus for his pilot’s licence, was as excited as a small boy with his first cricket bat. They could hear the aircraft coming long before it came into sight, flying five hundred feet above the ground in level flight, the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine screaming.

  Before the test flight every instrument in the cockpit had been double-checked with emphasis on the speedometer Harry Brigandshaw thought was faulty earlier in the week. The machine guns in the wings had been taken out, the portals closed while the armourers worked on the drawings for their replacements. At either end of the grass field a man stood next to a flagpole, the first with a stopwatch in his hands, while they waited for the plane to fly over the flagged poles.

  John Woodall pointed as the man at the first flagpole started his stopwatch when the prototype Spitfire passed exactly overhead. The man at the top of the field stood next to his pole looking vertically at the sky where the plane would fly at maximum speed over his head. In his right hand held above his shoulder was a red flag he dropped at exactly the moment the Spitfire flew over his pole, while at the start of the measured half mile the first man stopped his watch with a sharp press on the button before jumping on a motorcycle which he raced up the grass runway towards the engineers waiting with John Woodall for the news; the man was riding the bike with one hand, waving the other over his head.

  “It’s got to be over three hundred,” said John Woodall. “I must go and tell Harry the instruments were right after all.”

  “Taking the guns out helped,” said the man next to him. “He’s coming back again and lower. He’s going to buzz the shed. The phones are out of order again, John. If you want to give Harry Brigandshaw the good news you’ll have to use that lunatic’s motorcycle. If he hits a bump he’ll fall off and kill himself.”

  “Three hundred and twelve,” the man was yelling as he skidded the BSA Blue Star motorcycle to a halt. “It’s the fastest fighter in the world. Here he comes again.”

  “Can I borrow your motorcycle to go to Hastings Court?”

  “You can take it to the moon, John. Those instruments were right. Even with four guns in each of the wings. Rolls-Royce can improve on the engine to get the same speed. The airframe is strong enough. Wouldn’t the Germans like to know about this?”

  Around them, everyone on the team was shaking hands as the Spitfire with the factory test pilot in the cockpit was coming round, this time to land.

  “How soon can they get them into mass production?... I’ll bring the bike back tomorrow, Tom.”

  “When you like. I’m going to get drunk in the bar with the rest of them. Say hello to Harry for me. The tank’s full of petrol. Put on your flying jacket. It gets cold on the bike at high speed.”

  “When is the phone going to work again?”

  “They promised to send someone out to the aerodrome on Monday.”

  When John Woodall rode up the long driveway at Hastings Court half an hour later the only person to come out of the house to meet him was Anthony.

  “When are you going to teach me to fly, Mr Woodall? Dad and the rest of the guests are up on the heath having a picnic. The grass is too wet to play tennis.”

  “When is your father coming back?”

  “Not for ages. Cousin Tinus is with him and they talk. Only time Dad has a chance to talk about Africa. My mother hates Africa, though I don’t mind. Did you know Tinus’s father shot his first leopard when he was eleven? Or was it my grandfather? Can I ride your bike, Mr Woodall?”

  “How old are you, Anthony?”

  “Fourteen. I’ll only ride on the estate where I don’t need a licence.”

  “You fall off and burn your leg on the hot exhaust, your father will never speak to me again.”

  “Then can I have a ride on the pillion? Doesn’t a bike like that go cross country? I’ll take you up on the heath to find Dad.”

  “Do you know where they’ve gone?”

  “Probably. You’ll have hours to wait otherwise. Mother’s in the house somewhere and Beth is looking after a baby. Why do girls like babies, Mr Woodall?”

  “It’s built into their maternal make-up.”

  “My sister must have a strong maternal make-up. She’s been pushing the pram round the garden for hours talking to the baby who doesn’t say a word.”

  “Hop on, which way do we go?”

  “Down the path behind the house and through the trees. Do you want to tell mother you’re here?”

  “I have something very important to tell your father.”

  “You can drive round that side of the house,” Anthony said, pointing his finger, “and past the sheds to pick up the path to the heath. Frank has rabbits in one of the sheds if you want to have a look. The buck rabbit is enormous. Frank breeds them for their meat. He likes dangling them headfirst by their hind legs and chopping them behind their ears with the side of his hand. One blow and the rabbit’s dead. I can’t even look when he does it with that look in his eye, let alone kill the poor things. They have beautiful big eyes and their noses twitch. The rabbits come from Belgium for some reason. English rabbits don’t like to live in cages. They prefer burrows in the banks of the ten-acre field. I like the wild rabbits much better. Why do people like to kill rabbits?”

  “We’ll skip the rabbits, Anthony. Find your father for me quickly and next time you come to Redhill I’ll take you up in the Tiger Moth.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “That’s a promise, Anthony. Grab me round the waist and hold tight. I don’t want you falling off if we have to ride some rough ground.”

  “What do you want to tell Dad?”

  “It’s a secret. A big secret.”

  “You can’t tell me?”

  “No I can’t. Even the new King doesn't know.”

  “Why can’t he speak properly over the radio?”

  “He has a stammer, Anthony. An impediment in his speech. No one ever thought the Duke of York was going to be king so they did nothing about it.”

  With the boy pointing a finger in front of his nose, John Woodall rode the heavy motorbike round the house to the path that would lead them through the trees. The path was wet from the earlier rain, the big trees dripping occasional drops of water as they rode in under the canopy of green leaves.

  They were sitting on their raincoats, the warmth of the sun having made the part
y take them off to carry soon after they came out onto the heath, up the long bridle path from the old house. Someone in an earlier year had placed logs from fallen trees round in a witches’ circle; with the raincoats on top, the big logs were more comfortable to sit on and drink tea than sitting on the wet grass.

  Everyone had come together for the tea. The rain over the Epsom Downs racecourse had moved further away. There was a ring of strange stones inside the circle of tree trunks with a big flat stone in the middle for one person to sit on; the big stone was polished from years of people’s bottoms like a river stone washed by the stream of water over centuries.

  “There were druids in England long before the Christians,” explained Harry. “I’ve never seen the coven as they come here on the full moon, according to Mrs Craddock. When I ask her about the stones she goes into a faraway look. I think the stones are courting stones and nothing to do with warlocks or witches. Mrs Craddock grew up around here. It’s difficult now to see her as a pretty young girl full of sap, but she was once upon a time like everyone else.

  “I like this spot. It speaks of happiness and friends to me from thousands of years ago. In those days the families stayed in the same spot for century after century, living in harmony with each other, the young ones coming here for trysts; or so I like to imagine. My grandfather told me stories of Hastings Court when I was growing up in Rhodesia; where he came after selling the Court to my grandfather Brigandshaw some people called the Pirate. England with the English Channel had been safe from invasion for centuries. The last time England was successfully invaded was when my Manderville ancestors came over with William the Conqueror in 1066, quickly blending into medieval England as they settled down. We never even tried to go back to Normandy, any one of us according to family history. I always feel at peace sitting here as if I am at home with myself, which I suppose I am as without those ancestors I wouldn’t be sitting with you drinking this tea… Help yourselves to the sandwiches, if you would like. Mrs Craddock has made enough for an army.”

  At the sound of man, Harry stood up and cocked his ear to the wind.

  “Can any of you hear a motorcycle?... It’s coming our way. As my mother said, who was born right here, there’s no peace for the wicked.”

  “It’s Anthony,” said Tinus. “And Mr Woodall from Redhill Aerodrome.”

  “What does he want here?” said Harry immediately on his guard. “Please stay where you are, everyone, and enjoy the peace. I’ll go and find out what they want. Janet, pass round Mrs Craddock’s sandwiches even if it is a bit early for lunch.”

  The motorbike was making steady progress up the slope towards the circle of fallen trees as Harry moved down towards them, walking fast. Fifty yards away the bike stalled after hitting a clump of grass that hid a small hillock the size of a football; Harry, from hours of walking on his own, knew every hillock on the heath.

  “Mr Woodall has a secret for you, Dad, even the King doesn’t know about,” shouted his eldest son so loud Harry thought they would hear the news on Epsom Downs.

  “Then he’d better whisper it in my ear, Anthony, or it won’t be a secret. John knows how important good secrets can be. Have you come for a picnic lunch? There’s enough for two more. I’ll come and help you prop up the bike so it doesn’t fall over and leak oil. How are you, John? Lovely surprise, I have my old friends here from Germany but we couldn’t play tennis because of this morning’s rain and here we are on the heath. Anthony must have known I’d bring them to the magic circle, as the children like to call it.”

  Harry had seen John Woodall’s mouth open ready to shout the news Harry had been expecting on the telephone.

  The mouth was closed tight as Harry reached the motorcycle, the announcement of friends from Germany having clouded John Woodall’s face.

  “What’s the matter, Harry?”

  “I don’t trust him. William Smythe says his uncle and nephew are with the Nazis. I’m going to have a word with him. Just whisper to me, John, and then come and have lunch.”

  “I won’t even whisper, Harry. But I’ll tell you this: there’s nothing wrong with the instruments.”

  “I don’t even think his wife knows what he is up to. It’s bad times a-coming, old friend. We’ll need everything we can muster if the Americans don’t help. William even thinks the Japs are in on the act now they’ve invaded China, attacking Peking and Shanghai. After the Japs sort out Chiang Kai-shek and his new reluctant communist allies, William thinks they’ll turn on Hong Kong and Singapore. It’s going to be even bigger than the last one.”

  “You really know how to take the wind out of a man’s sail. I should have stayed and got drunk with the rest of them.”

  “That good, was it?”

  “Rather, Harry. Even better. We’ll be all right now, mark my words.”

  “Anthony, I want you to be a good chap and go and tell Mrs Craddock Mr Woodall is staying the night with us and to make up a room.”

  “Mr Woodall’s going to take me up in the Tiger Moth for finding you so soon on the heath.”

  “Thank you, John. Anthony will enjoy the flight. Now be a good lad and run home with my message before Mrs Craddock takes her afternoon nap… Come and meet Herr von Lieberman, John.”

  “The chap you shot down?”

  “The same one.”

  “I was about to shout my mouth off.”

  “I know you were.”

  There were never opportunities when he wanted them and Harry had to wait until the Sunday. His friend was going back to Germany the next day. Likely, Harry thought, there would never be another chance. Bergit and Tina were talking servants and children, a conversation Klaus and Harry both tried to avoid.

  “Let’s make a duck,” said Harry quietly, making a face that Klaus understood; women talking women talk were best left alone. “There’s not a child to be seen or heard. Why don’t you and I walk to the Running Horses at Mickleham and have a pint of beer? Take us half an hour or so and it doesn’t look like rain. The pub opens for two hours at lunchtime and Tina has nothing planned now the others have gone back to London and Tinus has taken a run in the Morgan with Andre.”

  “Was that Woodall man in the Flying Corps with you, Harry?”

  “Not with me, Klaus,” lied Harry. “He runs a flying school at Redhill Aerodrome where he’s taken Anthony for a flip in his Tiger Moth. Tinus is going to pick him up after the flight. Now Anthony is a big lad it’s going to be a tight squeeze, three in the Morgan.”

  Klaus von Lieberman looked around him as if seeking help.

  “It’s not going to rain, Klaus, if that’s what you think. I have Mrs Craddock’s word on it. You remember them talking about Genevieve last night; the famous actress? Her mother was once the barmaid at the Running Horses where she met my brother-in-law, Merlin St Clair. He’s Lord St Clair now after his father died last year. Every time I’ve ever been there I found a pretty barmaid.”

  “Don’t talk so loud, Harry. Bergit will hear.”

  “I’m whispering. Come on. Before those two natterers realise we’ve gone.”

  Like two small boys intent on playing truant they sidled away until they were out of sight round the house where they quickened their pace.

  “Like sneaking out of Bishop’s in Cape Town for a pint at the Foresters Arms, the oldest pub in South Africa. Let’s get going before they find out they’re on their own on the lawn. Do you remember those long walks we had alone in Rhodesia when we agreed how stupid it was to go to war? When we asked ourselves what all the slaughter in France had been about?”

  “You want to talk, don’t you, Harry?”

  “Yes, I do. But not just now. There’s a bench in the woods the Mandervilles have been sitting on for centuries. Not exactly the same wooden bench as they rot and have to be replaced, but always under the same oak tree. That’s important. It’s the kind of place good people should talk to each other. Do you know in the Congo the Tutsis had such a place? Some say man came out of Africa, which is why
underneath it all we are exactly the same, however hard we try to be different. Every generation or so the Tutsis made peace with the Hutus at the very same spot. Every generation or so they forgot about peace and slaughtered each other. There’s always someone in the pack who sees a way of making himself powerful by going to war. Among men he can always find a grievance to play upon. Right through the history of mankind evil men have found it easier to destroy than build. In Africa they have a saying: follow or lead or get the hell out of the way. You’ve been telling me to take my family and get out of the way. I will if you and your family come with me to Elephant Walk.”

  “I can’t, Harry.”

  “Then tell me what the hell’s going on. Why you suddenly wanted to pay me a visit.”

  “Let’s first find that bench in the woods.”

  They walked in silence side by side through the trees until they reached the old oak tree with the largest girth in the county of Surrey. Underneath the spreading oak was an old wooden bench without a back. Around the bench, strewn on the green moss between half emerged gnarled roots, were old, dark brown acorns. The foliage of the tree was dense above the bench without any sign of dead branches. Harry suspected the owls had been asleep inside, waiting to come out and hunt in the dark of the night, and they were now wide awake and listening to intruders.

  “Legend has it the first English Manderville planted the acorn that made this magnificent oak. A chap from Kew Gardens told me the tree was older than that, from the previous millennium. I asked him if the tree would live forever and he said it wouldn’t, like everything else; one day it would die. I like the acorn from Normandy story better. We’d best sit down… Why did you come to England, Klaus? You have my word that whatever is said under this tree will never be repeated.”