On the Brink of Tears

by Peter Rimmer

  “How are you, Harry?” said Barnaby.

  “Excellent. Quite excellent. We were going to have little flags to give to the children… Where’s Janet, Horatio?”

  “At home with the kids. Sunday’s the only time she has any peace from her speech therapy.”

  “She won’t have much from young children. Mine are in a permanent state of noise.”

  “Talking of Private Lives, Tinus,” said Genevieve, sweetly, “Vera sends her love.”

  “Vera?” said Tinus abruptly turning round from his conversation with Andre, who was looking embarrassed as a junior officer with everyone else on equal terms with the group captain monopolised the conversation. “Do I know a Vera?”

  Andre, having watched Tinus blush from the roots of his hair down his neck at the mention of Vera, controlled his laughter, knowing just as well as Tinus who Vera was.

  “She said you shared a boat.”

  “Oh, that Vera,” said Tinus offhandedly. “We travelled together on the Corfe Castle in ’35. Where did you meet Vera?” He was going to add ‘how does she remember me?’ but thought better of it, his whole body in a panic as he recalled his first sexual encounter at the bottom of a lifeboat.

  “She took over my part after I signed the film contract.”

  “Is she any good?”

  “Better than me, don’t you know. But I can always practise. Maybe we should practise together, Tinus?”

  “I’m not an actor.”

  “I think you are doing very well at the moment. She even said you were going to introduce me to her as part of the bargain. You should always keep your end of a bargain. Vera said she kept hers, even if her part was somewhat brief. Tinus, I do believe you are blushing for the second time. It’s rather sweet.”

  “I haven’t seen Vera since the boat trip.”

  “That was her point.”

  “What was all that about?” asked William, who had been listening to every word coming out of Genevieve’s mouth in the hope she would say something that would stop his longing, the interplay between her and Tinus only making it worse. William knew exactly what it was all about without having to be told.

  “I have no idea,” said Tinus, recovering himself. “Absolutely no idea… Did someone say something about a reception committee in the officers’ mess?”

  Tinus was looking around, taking in the feeling of an operational air force station that he knew someday soon would be his home, as Genevieve and Gregory L’Amour were swallowed up by the press.

  “I’ll show you,” said Andre. “I think we’ve lost Genevieve again to the journalists. Poor Greg’s being eaten up alive. I don’t ever want to be famous. Just look at the poor fellow trying to be so polite to everyone at once. Who’s the pilot with Fleur and Celia?”

  “Flight Lieutenant Kent,” said Tinus. “He somehow works with Uncle Harry. First time I saw him in uniform.”

  “What does your uncle do at the Air Ministry?”

  “No idea. One minute he’s test flying prototypes at Redhill, next minute he’s looking for German spies. I prefer not to ask questions. There’s talk his friend in Germany is a Nazi, so it’s not so simple. Uncle Harry likes Klaus. Trusts him. That much I do know. After the war, Herr von Lieberman visited Elephant Walk on his honeymoon. One day trying to kill each other up in the air, next day best of friends on safari in the African bush. Wars and people in wars never did make sense. Like my grandfather being hung by the British, a Boer doing his job fighting for his own people while married to my grandmother who was English. Make sense out of that one. Now we’re going to do it again against the Germans with the Boers on our side as they were in France in the trenches. Man never stops bickering. When he can’t have his own way, he wants a fight. Sometimes the idea of living in Africa far from everybody is very attractive.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Andre.

  “Let’s get that cup of tea they’re talking about.”

  “She caught you on the wrong foot, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did. Didn’t think women talked about such things,” said Tinus.

  “We do,” replied Andre.

  “Only to our best friends. Not to a stranger. What was Genevieve trying to get at?”

  “Do you want my opinion?”

  “Why I asked, Andre.”

  “She’s jealous of Vera. Underneath all the banter of the three musketeers, friends just having fun, she’s in love with you.”

  “I’m too young.”

  “That’s never made any difference.”

  “She’s famous. Next month I won’t have an allowance and probably no job.”

  “Women don’t see it that way. They see the potential. For themselves and their children. It’s part of evolution. They think with their instinct that some call their heart. Basic, primal instincts all the way from the slime of evolution, according to Darwin and Freud.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “She wants her turn in the boat, Tinus.”

  “What about Greg?”

  “He’s been in the boat. So has William Smythe, the way he was looking at her. She wants you in the boat where she wants to keep you. She’s in love and you’re blind. I’ll take you to the mess and then I must change into uniform. Once on the station we have to be dressed properly.”

  “She’s going to America.”

  “She’ll be back again.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re here, Tinus. First love makes a strong impression on all of us for the rest of our lives. What comes afterwards never seems quite the same.”

  “I’m far too young to settle down.”

  “Doesn’t have to be tomorrow. Life takes its course. The mess is in that building over there. Go and join your Uncle Harry while I get changed.”

  “I like the feel of an RAF station.”

  “So do I. My guess is it won’t be long before they’ll be asking you to join up.”

  It was the first time Barnaby St Clair had been allowed into an officers’ mess since stealing the fifty pounds from the mess funds at the end of the war and been kicked out of the army. All the other officers, he remembered looking round the familiar surroundings, had private incomes from their parents; the St Clairs were too poor to send him a penny. In the mess, rounds of drinks, quite often for everyone in the crowded room, were added to each officer’s card in turn by the mess steward, the bill payable once a month. Not to pay one’s bills was beyond the pale.

  In the euphoria of the Turks and Germans finally collapsing, Cairo had been a place of high celebration. The war had ground Barnaby’s nerves to the point that even a distant gunshot made him jump. Getting drunk every night trying to forget the dead officers he had met and fought with was only part of the problem. What he was going to do with the rest of his life was more to the point.

  In 1918 the only trade known to Barnaby was that of a soldier, which was coming to an end. The CO had put him in charge of the mess funds. For three months Barnaby had been able to keep his unpaid bar bill to himself, but when the CO found out and ordered him to pay, he had had to find some money.

  Asking his father was hopeless. Merlin was still somewhere in France. Robert had enough problems of his own with his foot blown off. He had already borrowed as much as he could from wealthy fellow officers, who were giving him the bird once they saw they were not getting their money back. Just before Barnaby was due to leave Egypt and go back to England and likely be asked to leave the service as, unlike some of the others, he was not a regular officer, he had taken fifty pounds from the mess fund and paid all his debts, leaving himself just over five shillings to see him into civilian life when he reached England to join the ranks of the unemployed.

  The adjutant must have been watching him. Instead of being cashiered they had sent him straight to England and ordered him to resign his commission. Maybe they had appreciated his efforts in the Arabian Desert fighting the Turks, something he cynically doubted. He was one of them. Out of the top drawer. The Hono
urable Barnaby St Clair, younger son of a baron of ancient lineage who just happened to have run out of money.

  It was more a matter of saving their collective face, kicking him swiftly out of the army rather than putting him on trial. Afterwards, he heard his commanding officer had paid in the fifty pounds. One day when the opportunity arose he was going to pay back the CO his money. Paths usually crossed again. He owed the CO for his social position in England and from that, his subsequent fortune which had grown from his contacts. Otherwise his equals would have sent him to Coventry for the rest of his natural life, a dishonest Englishman in the service of his king, a fate worse than prison, some thought a fate worse than death. No one for the rest of his life would have talked to him let alone done business: the whole British Empire was based on trust and honesty which excluded even the whiff of bad behaviour or corruption, with ostracism for anyone breaking the code of a gentleman.

  Looking around the familiar room with the long bar at one end, it made Barnaby physically shudder at the thought of what should have happened to him without the understanding intervention of Colonel Hugh Parson. Then Barnaby saw Harry Brigandshaw watching him and walked across the room to get away, he hoped, from his bad memories.

  “Feel like old times, Barnaby?”

  “Certainly brings back memories. Not all of them good. There were so many chaps we left behind. I was just remembering I owed a man a debt.”

  “Pay him back.”

  “If I could find him.”

  “Ah, Barnaby. Leave that one alone. There are some debts you can never repay. You have to live with them. Someday you’ll have a chance to help a young man yourself.”

  “You know a lot more about me than you pretend.”

  “Lucinda was very fond of you, we all are. It’s just sometimes you get out of control. Thank you for keeping an eye on von Lieberman. We have eleven names on our list to watch for if war breaks out. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “I didn’t think anything happened. The things I do for King and country.”

  “He was sliding them up to his suite in the Savoy in the middle of all your gallivanting, which made him careless. I’ve already thanked Fleur and Celia.”

  “Will they call me up again if there’s a war, Harry?”

  “Probably. You were a damn good soldier. Just a fool in those days when it came to money.”

  “I didn’t have any. You don’t even know what it’s like not to have money.”

  “I did in the Congo, Barnaby. There I had nothing. Not even my freedom. Do you want to join up again?”

  “I’m too old.”

  “You’re experienced. That will count for a great deal in the beginning.”

  Across the room, standing on his own, Harry saw Timothy Kent who caught his eye.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Barnaby. You’d better go and join Fleur and Celia.”

  “They’re all right surrounded by young officers. I’ve told them to sell their records to the media and have their photographs taken as many times as possible. You have to push music to make the public pick your record from the rack. I asked William Smythe to say something about them on the BBC Empire Service. He laughed. Said young girls and the state of the world had nothing to do with each other. He’s getting a bit pompous now he’s famous. How can they only serve tea at a time like this? You’d better go, Tim’s waiting for you. Just ask him from me when we can leave. It’s my car but he was driving.”

  “They’ll get a lift back to London if you want to go,” said Harry.

  “Think I will. Celia and I don’t see much of each other anymore.”

  “Thank you for bringing them. They’re having fun. Tim had to be here, seeing he organised this shindig.”

  “They would at their age. At my age I should have five children and a nagging wife.”

  “She doesn’t nag me, Barnaby.”

  “I was not referring to Tina. How is she?”

  “Unhappy. Unhappy with herself. She thinks the world has passed her by. I want her to take the children to Cape Town out of harm’s way. She has her brother in Johannesburg but that hasn’t persuaded her, however much Albert helped Tina to become who she is in society. It was Albert who employed Miss Pinforth to teach Tina to speak properly.”

  “Bert doesn’t like me.”

  “I wonder why? Tina thinks she’ll be a fish out of water in Bishop’s Court.”

  “If the shit hits the fan she’ll go. I’m getting out of here. Makes me nervous. Too many ghosts. Tell Kent I’ve gone. He’ll tell the girls. You should get some recruits out of this shindig, as you put it so succinctly. There is nothing like involving the public. I’ve done my bit.”

  Through the crowd, Timothy Kent watched Barnaby leave the room. Out of the window he saw him get into his car. The two girls surrounded by blue uniforms took no notice. Even Fleur was fickle. Tim waited for Harry Brigandshaw to cross the crowded room where people were standing drinking cups of tea.

  “What’s the matter, Tim? Barnaby’s gone. He’s bored. If you can’t get a lift back you’ll have to take the train. I’ll ask Bruno Kannberg. Borrowed his editor’s car and there’s only two of them in the vehicle. His wife wanted herself photographed with a film star.”

  “We think the Gestapo have arrested your friend Klaus von Lieberman.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems he’s trying to extract his son from the Hitler Youth Movement where they indoctrinate all the youngsters. You can make anyone a fanatic if you catch them young enough. The churches have been doing it for centuries.”

  “What happened to his wife?”

  “She’s on the estate I suppose. All reports coming out of Germany are sketchy.”

  “Could it have anything to do with us rumbling his cousin?”

  “I hope not. They shoot them in Germany for treason.”

  “They shoot traitors everywhere, Tim. Is there anything we can do to help?”

  “Bugger all. You either follow in those political situations or get right out of the way.”

  “I told him to go to Rhodesia.”

  “Probably wishes he had, poor sod. My guess is he’s in for a very bad nightmare. Maybe you should have left him in his burning aircraft after all. When the Gestapo want information you don’t want to give, it’s better to be dead.”

  “They’ll have found out about our radar at Poling even though Klaus said he’d never repeat it.”

  “Casualty of war, maybe he can give them Poling to get off the hook.”

  “I hope so. What does a man do when his country is going haywire? Do you mind if I give his wife a ring?”

  “Not at all. We’re not yet at war. Just make it a normal social call and ask for her husband. Be careful you don’t make it worse for them by letting the Germans know we found out. They’ll have taps on his phone.”

  “Maybe I should go.”

  “To Bavaria? You work for the Air Ministry.”

  “Not officially. I’m just an old pilot helping out. I can fly myself across if someone will lend me an aeroplane.”

  “On your own, Harry?”

  “The thought just occurred I could take my nephew. He’s due down from Oxford any day. Nothing much to do then and we have a lot to talk about. He’s a damn good pilot.”

  “You’ll need more than that Tiger Moth of Woodall’s.”

  “See what you can do for me, Tim… My word, this is becoming a circus. I think I’ll need quite a big aeroplane and fly into Switzerland. The von Liebermans are not far from the Swiss border. If Hitler’s prodigy doesn’t want to leave his Youth Movement and is the cause of the trouble, at least I can get the rest of the family out of Germany. I owe that to Klaus if he is locked up. What a bloody state of affairs.”

  “What would you do with them?”

  “They can go and live on my farm in Rhodesia. The biggest chaos in history has always had an end. Sanity, fortunately for mankind, always prevails or none of us would likely be here, Tim. The old process of evolution w
ould have come to an end once and for all.”

  “You’d better hire a civilian aircraft at Croydon.”

  “Good idea. Come and have a cup of tea.”

  “I’ve had one.”

  “Then have another, Flight Lieutenant Kent. No, not Croydon. The Isle of Wight. I know a man with a prototype flying boat who might let me give it a test flight. Plenty of range to reach Lake Constance, or is it the Lake of Constance? When I found Klaus’s estate many years ago I noticed a whole lot of water over the hill, so to speak.”

  “When did you last fly a flying boat?”

  “The day I hit the hippo in the Congo.”

  By the time Harry Brigandshaw took off in the Tiger Moth with John Woodall to fly back to Redhill and pick up his car for the drive to Hastings Court, he was feeling pleased with himself. The day had proved a success.

  “A dozen youngsters asked me questions,” John Woodall had told Harry before they climbed up into their plane. “With the Gregory L’Amour story in every British newspaper, the RAF will be inundated with enquiries from young lads. Piece of genius, Harry.”

  “You just have to give the newspapers what they want. A good story that sells papers. America will have the story in a few days. William Smythe is well known in the States, even if some like to hate him for suggesting American concern for our colonised subjects is not completely altruistic but guided by big business. They’ve been slavering over our Indian market for textiles for years. Cotton comes from America on British boats to Liverpool and our cotton mills in Lancashire and the subsequent cloth goes to India to make saris. All the Indian women have to do is wrap the cheap, colourful cloth around themselves and look beautiful. America wants their cotton mills in the southern states to make the cloth and the American ships to take it to India. No one says that, of course. Gandhi wants Indians to boycott British textiles but the Indians don’t yet have the machinery to go into the mills. Gandhi is political, America commercial, in William’s opinion. Whenever there is change in the market, someone makes money and someone loses. I’ve told William to tone it down. When we get into another brawl with Germany we’re going to need all the help we can get… So the big film hero wants to be a fighter pilot. Geoff let him take the controls for a couple of minutes dressed in his flying gear with Gordon Stark taking photographs beforehand. Should get the glamour of the RAF across to all the Gregory L’Amour fans. Young people like to copy their heroes. Tina has another dinner party tonight so we’d better get on with it, John. Thanks for your help. How many asked you for flying lessons?”