by Peter Rimmer
He looked at his grandfather with a question mark, received a sweet smile in return and went on rummaging in the mailbag. Most of the letters were farm business and most of those were bills. He would take them to his small office next to the packing shed in the morning. When he found Jared Westwood's letter from England he smiled, followed by an instant picture in his mind of Jared's sister Sara who had still not married the man she was meant to marry last time he heard. Neither Jared nor his sister had been back to Africa for six years after the one and only venture into the wild. Jared now worked in the City and was miserable.
Robert walked across the lawn from the house that had belonged to the Oosthuizen family and closed the fly screen door behind him. Lucinda was still enjoying her evening bath.
"Help yourself," said Harry, "Letter from Jared Wentworth. You remember him. His sister was meant to marry Mervyn Braithwaite."
"He really did have a face like a wet codfish," said Robert, helping himself to a whisky from the sideboard, sloshing in a shot of soda water from the syphon.
"What's Jared got to say? What's he doing now?"
"Let me read first, Robert."
"Evening, Sir Henry."
Harry's grandfather kept on grinning but said not a word. The three of them drank in silence while Harry read the letter from England.
Dear old friend,
I sometimes find it much easier to write down what I want to say rather than bring the subject up in conversation. Anyway, most people never want to hear bad news or talk about it. If you're coming over to England as you have been saying for years in your letters I think you had better do it fast. Or as fast as it takes the horse to get to Salisbury, the train down Africa to Cape Town, and one of your family ships to England (I still have a good memory of Robert St Clair extolling the virtues of the 'SS King Emperor' – did you ever hear of him? – if you do, give him my best regards). Strange how you sometimes get to know people so well over a short time and never hear from them again. Which is why I so much value our correspondence.
Harry there's going to be a terrible war in Europe any time soon. The balance of power that has kept us away from each other's throats is crumbling. Germany is becoming far too powerful, and when a country has military power more than it needs to defend itself it becomes a predator, coveting its neighbour's property. And there are so many alliances between so many countries that if two go to war the rest will be dragged in by treaty. Did you know we have a treaty with the Serbs, for goodness' sake? Even Russia will be pulled head first into the fire.
The Americans I rather think will sit and watch and keep out of it. They don't have any pacts with Europe. They'll probably wait to see who's winning and come in at the end to share the spoils. People in the City are taking precautions, moving money to America, buying shares in American and British armament firms, trying to calculate who will win and who will lose in a great war. You have to wonder sometimes, seeing them burrowing away for their blood money. Quite disgusting. Why I will never do well as a stockbroker. I don't have the killer instinct, though if there is going to be a war, and everyone with brains in the City is certain there will be one, I'd better find one soon or at least the instinct to survive.
Now let me tell you about Sara which is why you must come over to England as soon as possible. Don't you get a free ticket or something, being family? That damn Braithwaite man and his money are still breathing down her neck. Persistence can sometimes be a deadly force. If you see each other again I'm sure you'll want to rescue her from hell.
Madge had come onto the fly screened veranda from inside the house and poured herself a gin and tonic before picking up the mailbag. She picked the tabby cat off her chair and sat down. Outside, the dogs were still chasing each other around the flowerbeds, regularly changing who was chased and who was chasing. The sky was blood red behind the msasa trees, the colour of the sinking sun. A pair of Egyptian geese were flying around honking at each other and Madge did not even think it was the mating season. Her grandfather was giving her a queer look. 'Oh, well, we'll probably all end up a bunch of drunks,' she said to herself, taking a swig from her drink. Satisfied she had put enough gin in the tonic, she began rummaging around in the mailbag for something interesting. 'There's nothing else to do but drink when the sun goes down,' she said to herself, sighing. Rationalising with herself was a trait she had learned early on in childhood. There was nothing in the mailbag for her.
The sister, Lucinda, came in smelling rather sweet.
"Help yourself," said Harry, not looking up from his letter.
The rule of pouring each other's drinks had been stopped a long time ago.
One of the dogs barged in through the fly screen door which banged behind her. The succession of clangs brought in the rest of the dogs that then lay down on the mat covered floor and slobbered.
Behind through the window into the dining room, the houseboy was laying out the cold food. All the food platters were covered with a muslin cloth, the pile of empty plates and cutlery standing either end of the food line on the sideboard. Madge's mother counted the plates to make sure there were enough, including her father. It seemed he was set on spending the evening with them. Looking through the drawing-room window onto the veranda she wondered what her father was up to. It was obviously quite something as the old man was almost hugging himself with glee. They would all find out soon enough. Her son had finished his letter and was staring into space and she wondered what that was all about. The girl with the two names, sometimes Lucinda, sometimes Cinda, was trying to catch Harry's eye. The girl had groomed herself carefully. If nothing else, Emily was glad she did not have to go through all that again.
The tabby cat had got back on the chair by sitting on Madge's lap which Madge had not noticed even though she was gently stroking the cat's fur. She was again rummaging one-handed in the mailbag and picked out a brown envelope in which the post office sent out cables. Someone had written on the outside of the envelope in pencil.
'This was found when we moved to our new premises. It was tucked down the back of your letter box. The Post Office apologises,' said the unknown hand.
"Look at this," said Madge, her eyes widening. "It's a cable for Jack Merryweather. Wasn't he the bloke who came out with you on the SS King Emperor in '07? Why would anyone want to cable him here? What's the matter, Harry? You look as if you seen a ghost?"
"You remember Jared Wentworth, Robert," said Harry. "I think he was here during your first visit. I must have talked about him. He also thinks there's going to be a war."
"What war?" said his mother now pouring her first drink. She sipped the drink, topped it up with gin, and turned from the sideboard to her son. "What war, Harry? No one's told me about a war."
"Robert here, and my friend Jared in England think there's going to be a terrible war in Europe."
"Whatever for? We're civilised. Civilised people don't have wars with each other. What absolute nonsense. And grandfather, what have you been up to today?"
"Nothing, Em, nothing."
"I don't believe you."
"Good Lord," said Madge, "This cable was sent in 1907, six years ago. It's from someone called Sallie Barker. Says she's in trouble and wants Jack Merryweather to give her some help. She says something terrible has happened to her."
Chapter 8: April 1913
There had been other moments in Jack Merryweather's life that he would have liked to wipe clean, expunge, take out of his life so they had never existed.
The same evening Madge was reading the belated cable from Sallie Barker, Jack walked into the Mansion House only half suspecting what he would find. Having come so far, he overruled his better instinct which he had known from experience was better not done. The landlord in Cape Town had started the rot.
"Had to give her back one month's rent. Not that I mind. There was something fishy going on in that house. Soon as you left to go up north to go hunting elephant, young girls started to arrive. All pre
tty, they were. And they stayed. Now, my house in Strand Street don't need no reputation. No men came, I'll give 'er that but all them young girls in one house. One of 'em was coloured, I can tell you that. Pretty. Very pretty. But coloured; if you see what I mean. They all went together."
"Where did they go?"
"Johannesburg."
"Are you sure?"
"She gave me an address in the end. Case of letters for 'er from England."
"Did one of the girls have black ringlets past her ears and dark brown eyes?"
"She was the prettiest of the lot."
"Did she go with them?"
"Did you hear what I said? They all went together. When renting property you got to know what's going on."
"Can you give me that address in Johannesburg?"
"If I can find it. Years ago it was. Grand name, remember that. Something to do with the Lord Mayor of London. The Mansion House. That's it. And I should know. I'm a cockney, see."
At the reception desk of the Langham Hotel, Jack had asked, strangely expecting a positive answer, if the man knew a house in Johannesburg called the Mansion House. The man had not even bothered to turn from the row of keys in their pigeonholes to give him the address which came with directions and a street address. "Anyone of the taxi drivers will take you there, sir. Would you like tea or coffee in the morning?"
It would have been better to have a good night's sleep, drink the tea in the morning, go back to the Johannesburg railway station, and start the journey home to England. But he had come this far. And Mrs Flugelhorne had been hanged for murdering her husband. And Ernest Gilchrist had said it had everything to do with Sallie Barker. The ends were still untied. It would nag his mind for ages if he did not find out once and for all. 'And frankly,' he told himself, 'I don't have much else to do with my life,' even though he knew that curiosity killed the cat, and usually in life it was better to mind one's own damn business.
It was past midnight, the train having only arrived in Johannesburg at eight o'clock that evening. The cab driver had needed neither directions nor the street address. The Mansion House, when he walked in, having given his hat and cane to a pretty hat-check girl, the same cane with the hidden sword inside, was packed with people. They had first made him sign a register to become a club member, whatever that was. He had given a false name and a false address in London. They had explained the three bars in a way that let him choose his class. He would not be drinking with the gold miners.
A small string quartet was playing in what the man at reception called the most exclusive lounge even if it was a little expensive! The quartet was remarkably good. Jack recognised a Beethoven late quartet. He made his way across to the bar and there holding court was his one-time gentleman's gentleman, Albert Pringle. The young man looked disgustingly prosperous, though for Jack's taste a little too flashy. Like magnets, their eyes drew together despite the years and the crowded room. Jack thought afterwards it was probably due to a bad conscience. Jack also suspected he was the last person Albert Pringle expected to see across the crowded room or wanted to see for that matter. Well that untied string was about to be tied.
Albert Pringle's whole stomach flipped over in one sickening heave. In a moment, he went from being a man about town, a man of property, to being a manservant for Jack Merryweather, the man he had run away from and his job. It was not a pleasant feeling.
"Got to go," he said to no one and everyone as the crowd briefly obscured Jack Merryweather of 27 Baker Street. "Got to go."
Albert ducked under the service counter of the bar, and without standing up straight pushed open the service door at the back corner of the bar, and escaped into the kitchen that served the four small dining rooms. Moving with the speed of a small boy caught in a terrible act, he ran through the kitchen and up the back stairs that led to the private suite on the top floor, away from the well-used bedrooms on the floor below.
Remembering to knock properly, so Lily would know without asking who was at the door, he banged the hardwood and hurt his knuckles. Lily herself opened the door still fully dressed. At midnight, it was her habit to take a nap before cashing up at three in the morning, after which they would all drive home to their respective houses.
"You look as if you've seen a ghost, Albert Pringle."
"I only wish he was a ghost. Lily, downstairs, right now, is my gentleman and your ex-lover, the one what paid our passage to Africa. He's after us, I tell you. Saw me 'e did. Got a right turn. He didn't look happy."
"What the hell you talking about?"
"Jack Merryweather. In person. Downstairs. Truth. Cross my heart. Looked right through my black soul, he did, and it weren't nice, Lily. What are we going to do?"
"Buy him a drink silly. He won't bite. Attack is the best form of defence. Where's Sallie?"
"Somewhere in the club. I don't know."
"We're all in the same boat, silly. The card he gave her. The cable she sent. His conscience has pricked at last. He's not come after you or me. It's poor Sallie. Pull yourself together and remember what we are, now. Not what we were then. You can say you came straight up here to tell me. He doesn't have to know you ran away like a scared rat. Money levels everything in life. We are rich, remember? You ask 'im how his grandfather made his money and it won't be no different to how we made ours. A good product and hard work. You mark my words, Albert. Your grandchildren will look just like Jack Merryweather if we carry on as we are. And a lot of thanks to Sallie Barker. Now pull yourself together and we'll both go downstairs together. I don't really know what the bloody hell he's here for so let's go and find out."
Sallie Barker saw the man who ignored her cable for help without being seen herself. He was sitting at the bar by himself looking miserable, not even trying to engage the barman in conversation. Maybe the man had had better things to do than help a nineteen-year-old girl in distress but then why had he given her his card. There had been something between them she was certain. From the meeting of the eyes in Green Park while she had help up the suffragette banner for her mother, to the dinner he had taken them to, to the days and evenings on the boat out from England. Or had it all been polite flirtation to pass the time for a man who did not have to work for a living, who had too much money and too much time on his hands?
She had written three unanswered letters to her mother at the Flugelhorne house in Constantia and then given up. She had done her best. She had explained. She had not even blamed her mother for not believing she had been raped. She imagined her mother ensconced in luxury and too busy with her social life to worry about a daughter who had run away to start a whorehouse with friends. Sallie rather thought her mother could have found out that she worked at the Mansion House. The world was small. Everyone liked to tell tales. There were often men in the club with businesses in Cape Town. She had never changed her name like Lily White. If she had made a mistake, it was too late to change anything now. She was what she was. Sallie Barker, financial manager of the Mansion House. They could all take her or leave her, including her mother if that was what they thought of her precious reputation.
Oh, what the hell she thought. She had a top salary and a share in the business, same as Albert Pringle. She had a house of her own with servants. She was rich in a comparative sort of way. And she had not stolen one cent. Neither had Albert. Lily White might not have been able to manage her own money, but she knew how to manage people. She knew how their dirty little minds worked, or so she said.
"Give an employee too much and he'll think you a fool, which you are. Give him too little and he'll steal. That's your job Sallie. Give me the right balance. And that goes for you and Albert. Strike the right balance and we'll all strike it rich. The rest goes without saying. I don't want no one stealing from me, barmen, waiters, or whores."
Six years is a long time if you have not seen a woman, especially if you liked what you saw the first time, and kept the picture clearly in the memory, thought Jack Merryweather.
The lovely black ringlets had gone and the soft brown eyes were now as hard as coal and as dark. There were no smile lines around her eyes or mouth. The hair was cut short for convenience with a sharp fringe along the forehead. The dark tailored suit she wore was well cut but severe. Every ounce of femininity that had been Sallie Barker at nineteen years old had blown away in the six years; Jack Merryweather was glad Mrs Flugelhorne had killed her husband who had chased the life out of the face he was studying above the Booth's gin bottle. The woman Mrs Flugelhorne should have been a hero and not hanged for the pains. Once again, Jack wondered if he would ever understand the human condition. He decided he would not like to find out what had gone through the girl's head in the past six years and looked away.
With luck he had changed considerably himself. He looked again in the mirror. What a way to find out about life. Someone, other than Mrs Flugelhorne, was going to pay. The circle of hate would go on round, recreating itself. She had not moved or stopped staring at his profile. He knew that if he turned and looked directly into the dark eyes some of the hatred would be directed at him and he wondered why. As far as he knew, Jack Merryweather had never done anyone a bad turn.
He was concentrating so hard on the face in the mirror, willing it to stay where it was and not come forward that he did not notice two people sit down beside him at the bar.
"Hello, Jack. How've you been?"
Between the time it took for Jack to turn around at the bar, Sallie Barker had vanished. He even took a quick look again in the mirror. She was gone.