Elephant Walk (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 2)

by Peter Rimmer

  "I may be big but I'm not stupid. Whatever you two thought."

  "Where are you staying, Lil?"

  "Right here. My bags are in the hall. The trunks at the station. Who's the centre of attention? Now that one would have made us money."

  "She's my sister, Lil."

  "Sorry, Albert. It's just me. Always had a good eye for a whore. Which reminds me. Where's Sallie?"

  "At home. We work together but don't live together."

  "Sounds like you don't like that, Bert my boy. She is class, our Sallie. Man who marries her will be real lucky."

  'I know,' thought Albert and went off to pour Lily a Scotch. "There's no pleasure without pain," he said quietly. Poor Lil.

  Being more shrewd than clever, Tina had watched the altercation and read the picture right. The madam had come back into their lives. She got up and walked away from her entourage. She never listened to what they said anyway. She just liked being the centre of attention. The crowd of men fluttered and followed in her wake.

  "My guess is you's Lily White. I'm Tina. Bert's sister. The men can introduce themselves. I'm no good at names. Now, why don't you and I go out on the veranda for a natter? You are staying with us? Good. There are more bedrooms in this house than the whole of Corfe Castle, the bloody village, not the bloody ruins. One of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit, if you know the music hall song."

  Lily looked back, checked the line of vision from where Tina had been sitting to the hallway. Then she smiled. The girl had seen the bags. She was good. Better to join a potential enemy at the start.

  Left on their own, within a minute, all the men were talking about the war.

  Sallie Barker put the telephone back on the hook feeling sad. Friends, like husbands and wives so often outgrew each other. One went ahead, one went behind. Poor Lily. What were they going to do with her? They were the last of her friends, she was sure of that. By the sound of it, no one had thought it worth their while to take her for a ride for her money. The idea of Lily White now transformed back into Lily Ramsbottom and twice the size she had been at the start of her world cruise was frightening. Could a body sustain so much fat and not break in the middle? The woman was still rich but even that did not seem to have helped. And having once been able to flick a finger and any man would have come running! Did the woman have herself to blame? Or had life left her in the lurch with only food for comfort? And then Sallie remembered again being taken in by this woman when she herself had been at the end of her tether. Sometimes owing friendship was the most expensive debt in life.

  The house was run by a manservant and his wife. The man, others in Europe would call a butler, gave her the power to eject any man who thought they could take advantage of a woman who lived on her own. Bill Hardcastle had been a boxer. His nose was fat and flat on his face and the hands that so delicately opened her front door were the size of hams. She paid him handsomely and he looked after her well. A bodyguard would have been a better description of his job. Molly, his wife, was the cook. The rest of the servants were black. When she went out at night, Bill drove the Bentley that Sallie had bought soon after the outbreak of war. The car was her only toy, her only extravagance other than the house. Both were designed to tell the male world she was rich in own right. The house and car visible signs of success. They were the solid face of wealth that every business needed as a façade. People liked doing business with the rich. They felt financially comfortable with the rich. It was all a lot of show-off nonsense so far as Sallie could see but she knew it was essential if they were to continue to succeed. And the car, yes, it did give her a nice feeling.

  "Mr Hardcastle! We're going out. There's a crisis at the Pringle household. Put the roof down on the car. I wish the rains would break. It's so stuffy."

  The reality was far worse than the phone call. Lily was obese. Hard to look at as human. A freak that spoke from a mound of flesh, blotched red skin, eyes sinking into oblivion, arms the size of a big man's thighs, hair listless. And when she sat down she took up most of the sofa.

  "How are you Lily?"

  The good-looking woman, Jack Merryweather's mistress, who had taken her into the Strand Street house when she was desperate did not reply. Sallie's attempt to kiss Lily on the cheek had been thwarted by the woman's belly. Lily had flopped back on the sofa and both Sallie and Albert wondered how she was going to get up again. Sallie was glad Bill Hardcastle was sitting in the car outside. The eyes, half submerged in the flesh began to ooze tears. Tina had gone off with some of the men for dinner at the Grand Hotel. They were alone, the three of them who together had made the first fortune from a whorehouse. There was no longer any point in pretending. Sallie found the tears flowing down her own face. Unless something was done quickly, Lily was better off dead. There was only one way to save the woman crying silently on the sofa, Sallie told herself. Love and care. Lots of love and lots of care.

  She walked across the room through the hall and called up Bill Hardcastle.

  "This time it's my turn," she said going back to Lily. "You're going home with me… This is Bill Hardcastle. He'll help you into the car. It's food, Lily. We are going to stop the food. None of the Boers who came out of the British concentration camps at the end of the Anglo-Boer War were fat. You're going on a diet after I've spoken to a doctor."

  "You're a true friend, Sal."

  "Will you do what I tell you?"

  "I'll try."

  The sofa lurched back as they brought Lily to her feet. Bill Hardcastle had her firmly under the left elbow.

  Lily had stopped crying. With Bill on her left and Albert on her right, with Sallie coming up behind, she hoped no one had seen the small sign of triumph in her eyes. People, she thought with satisfaction, were so easy to manipulate. If she had been an actress they would have made her a star. And losing some of the weight was not such a bad idea anyway. She was going to enjoy herself being looked after. She hated being alone. She would persuade the trustees so carefully put together by Sallie to sell the safe investments. She would buy as many of Serendipity shares as possible. She would tell them it was her way of reciprocating, of showing her faith in their ability. Then she would ask for a seat on the board of directors. Everything was going to be all right.

  By the time Lily was fitted into the open tourer, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. She wondered if the doctor would have some pills to stop her feeling hungry. Then she went to sleep, with the cool breeze playing on her face.

  The suitcases were strapped to the back of the car on the rack. Over in the bush it was thundering. Fork lightning cut the warm air as far away as the eye could see. It began to rain big drops as Bill Hardcastle drove up Sallie's driveway.

  By the time they pulled and pushed her out of the car Lily had the tears oozing down her face. There was no doubt in the mind. She should have been an actress. Within a week she would have them all at her beck and call. Far better than first class on a boat with a shipload of snobs. Far better than the hotel in Cape Town that was only interested in her paying her bill. As she waddled into her new home she thanked her lucky stars. When Sallie Barker had pitched up on the doorstep after Herr Flugelhorne had done his deed, Lily had taken her in as a future asset for the whorehouse. Not the financial manager she had so successfully become but as a whore. The girl would have made them a fortune.

  "You are so sweet to me," she said, squeezing out the last of her crocodile tears. "I don't know what I'd have done without you. Just get your man to show me my bedroom and Lily will get some nice sleep."

  "Won't you have some food first? A drink maybe?"

  "Maybe just a little whisky."

  "Bill, Give us both a whisky and soda."

  "Do you call your man by his first name?" she said sharply.

  "It may not be done in England. But here with the Africans all around it is different. Anyway, Bill and his wife Molly are more my friends. I don't know what I would do without them. Mostly I work fourteen hour
s a day."

  "I see," said Lily, making it quite clear she did not see at all.

  Bill Hardcastle would have preferred to put rat poison in her drink than whisky. When he finally got to bed having half carried a drunk fat woman to her room he took hold of his wife's hand.

  "We just brought a big, big problem into the house."

  "I saw you arrive. Watching through the window. Who is she?"

  "God knows."

  "When is she going?"

  "Only when she is kicked out. Sallie owes her for something."

  "Then she'll have to pay. You can't get and not give. Even if the giving is rather more than you got. God works in strange ways. Nothing comes free. The more you 'ave, the more you pay. Now go to sleep, Bill Hardcastle. The bitch won't get the better of your Molly. You mark my words."

  Two doors down the corridor, Lily White was drifting into sleep with a smile on her face. She was home and who would have thought it. She'd never have to lift a finger. She let out a giggling laugh and turned her face into the pillow. To hell with men keeping her. This was better.

  Tina Pringle returned home to Parktown Ridge soon after Lily fell asleep. It was late, and the man she was with let her out of the car and drove off. Albert was waiting up for her.

  "Do you know what time it is?" he shouted at her after he answered a knock at the front door. "And who was that?"

  "It's one o'clock and I don't know 'is name. Butch, or something. Who cares? Give us a drink, luv."

  "You know, you've only just turned seventeen."

  "I had my first fuck when I was thirteen. And 'e was lovely. Stop trying to be a dad. You's my brother. And the sooner you fuck that Sallie Barker the better for both of you. What 'appened to the whale?"

  "Sallie took her home."

  "Poor Sallie… That one's trouble."

  "She started the first business for us."

  "You sold it, didn't you? All got paid out according. You don't owe that fat old fart a farthing… Don't stand there like that Albert Pringle. Get me a drink. I've something to tell you. Benny Lightfoot is taking me on a safari."

  "The American?"

  "Could be."

  "He's fifty, for Christ's sake."

  "Don't use the Lord's name in vain brother Albert."

  "He slunk off when he found out I was your brother. The bloody man was swiping my drinks like he owned the place."

  "He's rich. Very rich. And divorced. Blimey, if he kicks the bucket early on in the piece, I'll be rich and single."

  "How do you think he's going to marry you?"

  "I 'ave my ways. Besides, he's besotted."

  "I'm going to send you back to England."

  "Don't be daft. Poor old Barnaby. Wouldn't touch him with a bargepole. Benny's rich. Barnaby's the last of the litter and old Lord St Clair as poor as a church mouse. Bugger his title. It's money what counts. Anyway, there's a war on over there… You going to 'ave a drink with me, Albert darlin'."

  "You're the bloody end."

  "I know. But it's nice."

  "Where are you going on safari?"

  "Rhodesia. That's north of the Limpopo River."

  "I know where it is. Met a bloke on the first boat we came out on. Farms in Rhodesia. Think his father was a white hunter."

  "What's a white hunter?"

  "The same as a black hunter. But he's got a white skin."

  "You are daft. What's this bloke's name? Is 'e nice? Maybe we'll pay him a visit."

  "Harry Brigandshaw was up at Oxford with Robert St Clair."

  "Then we're almost relations… Is 'e rich?"

  "Family controls Colonial Shipping among other things. They own the ship we came out on. They are a very big shipping company."

  "Then I will pay him a visit won't I. And about Robert's age, you say. Is he good-looking?"

  "All the girls thought so but he didn't take up with anyone on the boat."

  "Then he's fussy. Good. Waiting for Tina."

  "What about Benny Lightfoot," said Albert sarcastically.

  "What about 'im? We women use men, Albert. Or they do when they look like me. Ruled by their cocks they are. Never use their brains. That was a nice drop of Scotch, Bert. Now I'm going to bed. It's been a bloody hard day."

  "Looked like it. Night, Tina. Sleep well. Don't let the bedbugs bite… Just keep your own head screwed on right… When did he ask you to go to Rhodesia?"

  "Over dinner."

  "But he left before you."

  "Oh Albert. You should know by now. I always end up with the one with the most money."

  "And who was Butch?"

  "One of his flunkies."

  In Flanders, the shelling stopped an hour before dawn. The Pringle's, Sallie Barker and Jack Merryweather's former mistress were still asleep in their beds. Jack had changed his trousers and cleaned himself with the muddy water in the trench, vowing never again to let his bowels get the better of him. They waited fifteen minutes before the order came to stand to alert on the fire-steps of the reserve trench. Twice before Robert explained to him, Jerry had given them a break and then plastered them when they were standing out of the dugout's waiting to repel an attack. Robert had made no mention of the fouled trousers. With the rain drizzling into the mud and the light showing Jack the mangled devastation, the German attack began on the front line up ahead. Vickers machine guns perfectly enfiladed, fired without stop.

  "Poor bloody Jerry isn't going to see this Christmas," said Robert. "Surely nothing can live under that crossfire."

  "Then why do they do it?"

  "Some have made it personal and want their own back. Some are scared of being cowards. Some are more frightened of being shot for running away. Others want to die quickly. Most just do what they're bloody told to do." They stood in the line of men along the trench for another half an hour… "The German attack is faltering. The British Army won't need us to fight today."

  "Why do you fight, Robert?" asked Jack.

  "Don't even ask such a stupid bloody question. I'm here, am I not. Isn't that enough? What else can they want? Whenever England has gone to war the St Clairs have answered the call. Habit. Force of habit. Self-preservation. Keeping what little is mine. How would you like Fritz ordering you around in your own country? After a while you accept growing old is not all it's cracked up to be. We're here because someone told someone to tell the man that told you to do your duty. We're old men in this war. The kids are easier. They do what they are doing without question. Come on. It's over. We'll have one tot of what's left of your brandy and try and get some sleep. That bugle was the stand-down if they didn't teach you that at OCTU. The duckboards are out of the water for the moment. Most nights we sleep in the mud and water. The strangest thing of all is you get used to it. Even the noise."

  "I wonder if their souls went to heaven?"

  "Whose?"

  "The dead Germans. The ones just killed. Our men from the shelling."

  Without replying Robert pushed open the heavy blankets, wet and dirty grey, that hung over the entrance to the dugout. The fact that both sides prayed to the same God was a great puzzle to him. Victory for one side was death for the other. And both sides thought God was on their side. Both sides thought they were in the right.

  "I don't know," Robert answered at last. "At first I thought so. Now not so sure. Damn. My mug fell in the mud. Must have kicked it over when Jerry started his hate."

  Further to the north-west, on the other side of Mons, Captain Merlin St Clair, in command of B Company, Dorset Fusiliers, was inspecting the five machine guns that fell under his command. Not one had jammed in the German attack. The barrels of the guns were still too hot to touch. The only point he could see on the positive side of the slaughter, there were Germans tangled in the wire and spread in the mud all the way back to the German front line, was his own preservation and that of his men, coupled with the steady rise in the value of his Vickers-Armstrong stock that he had bought befor
e the war and were now worth ten times what he had paid for them. If he could survive the war he would be a rich man. Merlin was a realist. Promoted to captain after three months in Flanders, he was the only one left of his intake. He thought the chances of survival were minimal. But there was always a chance. There always had to be a chance or no one would go on at anything.

  Neither Robert nor Merlin had any idea they were fighting within ten miles of each other. After three months Merlin had learnt not to think of anything other than the present moment. Lighting a cigarette well below the line of the parapet, he walked on down the trench to the next gun. Even though his gunners were good, he always got behind each gun to check exactly their line of fire. If he was going to survive his piece of the war, he was not going to take any chances. In many ways it was part of his superstition. If he sat behind every gun before and after battle they would enfilade where they were meant to, and the mechanism wouldn't jam. The men relied on him. They were part of his superstition. They liked the comfort of the captain with his arse in the mud. Sighting the guns. All of them knew it would make no difference to an incoming German shell, but it gave them something to hold onto. The fact they knew his first name was Merlin added to the men's superstition. If the Germans killed the captain they were all dead. If Merlin the magician survived the war, they would all go home with him. The ritual to the men was as essential as food.

  The East Surrey Regiment moved up the communication trenches to the front line on Christmas Eve. For Jack Merryweather, the comfort of his home in Baker Street might as well have been on the other side of the moon. Allocated to his platoon on the second day of action, he had not since spoken to Robert St Clair except in passing. Negative thoughts expressed in earshot of the men were tantamount to treason. Officers set an example. They never grumbled. They never questioned an order. They kept to themselves until they were needed. Fraternising with soldiers was the quickest way to destroy an army, or so a pompous Brigadier had told them during Jack's course at Aldershot. What it all meant in the din of battle he was not sure. All he could do was keep his platoon as comfortable as possible in appalling conditions and hope he did not shit his pants in front of them the first time he led them over the top.