Elephant Walk (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 2)

by Peter Rimmer

  The only pleasure Sallie reaped from the day was the look of panic on Lily White's face when Sallie introduced her mother. Bill Hardcastle kept a blank face. Inscrutable. But under the inscrutability, Sallie knew Bill was having a laugh. Not at her. At life. How the past so often came back to haunt the present. The idea of marrying Albert Pringle was no longer so obscure. He may not make her sexually crave the satisfaction. She did not love him in the sense that other people understood. She was not even sure she could imagine the two of them in bed together. Yet, Albert was reliable. Albert was always there. He was her friend. Never once had she not been pleased to see him. Maybe that was worth far more than all the excitement… Try to she did, she could never quite make herself agree. There had to be excitement. There had to be a gut-wrenching rush. There had to be the desire to never take her hands off a man. To make love for a week… In some ways her life seemed to be so simple. She had tried with a man. Several times. But it never lasted; she always remembered, always afraid. And afterwards, life was worse than before. To find and lose life's satisfaction so quickly. It was cruel. Something in her private life had to last, other than Lily White and her mother.

  At the time Mrs Barker was ordering Bill Hardcastle to bring tea out onto the veranda, not far away, Tina Pringle was reading the newspaper. Her brother had brought it home with him. Diligently she read the front page but did not pick up on the newsflash about the Rhodesian pilot. Reading the newspaper was part of her new education. Since the reading had become easier, she enjoyed some of what she was reading.

  Soon after they returned from their safari more than a year ago, Albert had broached the subject of her education and where she should be going with her life.

  "Being a magnet for men is one thing when you are young. But keeping them is quite another thing. You only have to look at Lily White. I can tell you from first-hand that when she first met Jack Merryweather she had the same power over men as you. Now look at her. She couldn't sell herself in the old Mansion House if she tried. Not even sure with all that weight if it's still possible."

  "She let herself go," Tina had said, not in the least bit interested.

  "It would not have made any difference."

  "Why not?" said Tina with the confidence of youth.

  "All women get old. After twenty-five their power diminishes."

  "Nonsense. Once you got it, like, you never lose it. Sex appeal stays. Mark my words. And talkin' of sex, when are you goin' to bang that Sallie Barker? You look at 'er like she is the bloody Queen but she's a woman with the same under 'er pants as the rest of us. Bang the bloody woman, or stop lookin' at 'er with them sheep eyes."

  "She's not interested."

  "You can still bang 'er. Surprising what you find after a bang. The ones what looks the worst out of bed are sometimes the best in the sack." Tina smacked her lips.

  "You have a filthy mind."

  "Why does the truth always hurt brother Bert? Bang 'er. Take my word."

  "You're getting me off the track."

  "I know."

  "You can't even read properly let alone add up. You need an education like I got at Sallie's instigation."

  "There you go again. Bang the bloody woman."

  "I'm being serious. If you want to really get on in this life you have to have an education. Look at me."

  "All right, Bert. What's the problem?"

  "I want you to be someone. Not a Lily White."

  "I'm not a whore."

  "You behave like one."

  "I'm looking for a rich husband."

  "Rich men do not marry illiterate women. They make them their mistresses and kick them out when they've had enough… You don't think Benny Lightfoot would have married you!"

  "He might have done."

  "In your dreams, sister darling."

  "What you 'ave in mind Bert?"

  "A teacher. A Miss Pinforth. Reading. Writing. Arithmetic. Decorum. How to walk. How to dress."

  "You're serious! Blimey!"

  "You need to be taught how to behave yourself. But most of all, how to speak properly. Dammit, Tina. We are not going back to England. That railway cottage doesn't have to come with us. I'm rich. Alongside me you can marry who you want in Johannesburg. But first you've got to learn how to behave."

  "Are you knocking our dad and our mum?"

  "I love both of them. You know that. We've a chance to get off the bottom bloody rung. Growing up in that old cottage was lovely. Crowded but lovely. But I want more. So do you. For heaven's sake I was a 'gentleman's gentleman', a bloody valet. Now look at me. And had it not been for Jack Merryweather making me read proper, and write, and speak proper, I'd a still 'ave been in gutter so to speak."

  "You just dropped an 'h' Bert."

  "I know I did. And that's what I mean. It's still skin-deep in me but it won't be in my kids."

  "Better bang 'er first, Bert."

  "Oh shut up and listen… Do you want to make something of your life?"

  "Yes I do," said Tina very quietly.

  "Good, Miss Pinforth moves into the house tomorrow."

  "You banging 'er Bert?"

  "She's fifty-seven. A severe fringe. Glasses. Very plain I'm afraid. She would probably have killed to have had your sex appeal. Though at fifty-seven that doesn't even matter. No, I'm not 'banging' Miss Pinforth. And when you see her tomorrow you'll know exactly why… I want mum and dad to be proud of you. What with Walter blown to bits and Edward drowned. Never found nothing of Billy."

  "I'll do it if you promise me one thing. You don't go and join the army. I don't want you dead too, Bert. Please. I can't 'andle another. There's three of my brothers dead in this bloody war. And they can't take the last of you. Promise me that and I'll do anything you want."

  Bringing her mind back to the present, Tina noticed the rain had stopped as quickly as it had come. She could still hear thunder rumbling over towards the Magaliesberg Mountains. From the veranda on Parktown Ridge, she could see the bush going far away, to where the rays of the sun were breaking through the black thunderclouds moments before the sun would sink for the day. Miss Pinforth preferred a small cottage at the bottom of the garden where the flowers were plentiful and she could be at peace on her own. Being at peace was a large thing in Miss Pinforth's life. Surprisingly to Tina, the woman was happy. She never mentioned family or friends. Only the flowers and the birds in the garden, and the books she read.

  Tina had turned nineteen the week before and when she concentrated she managed not to drop letters all over her speech. She had even begun to put the words in their right sequence. Adding up, she said to Albert, was now a 'piece of cake'. Why it was a piece of cake Albert did not know but he understood what his sister was saying. She was learning. There was even a better quality of men on the veranda when Albert came home to his house. And quite often the same people. Sometimes the men brought girls but none of them appealed to Albert. Only when Sallie came over to the house did his face light up. There was nothing he could do. As the years went by he only wanted Sallie. And if he couldn't have Sallie he'd end up like Miss Pinforth, at the bottom of the garden with a book.

  To Albert's surprise, there were no visitors drinking his booze when he had come home with the paper. He had put it down to the rain. Later, he was standing with his hands on the iron wrought railing looking out from the ridge, when he heard his sister take a sharp intake of breath.

  "It's him," she said deliberately. The 'h' in place was so affected it made Albert smile. He had found the same problem. In the end it came naturally. "It's Harry Brigandshaw. Got to be. Air force. That's right. Look at this, Bert. Our 'ost up in Africa's a bleedin' hero."

  "You'd better not let Miss Pinforth hear you put it that way."

  "But he is. Look. I'm right. There's his name under the photograph. Harry Brigandshaw. Now, he's lovely. Don't know what I wouldn't have done to him if he hadn't run away. He's gorgeous. What was the name of his farm?"

 
; "Elephant Walk."

  "That's it. The funny name. That's what started it. I could marry him, Bert. The others are mostly a bunch of twits. Harry Brigandshaw is a man. Too bad he ran away."

  The doorbell rang from the hall and Tina put down the paper. The entourage was late thought Albert but there had been the rain. The sun gave out a last flash of light and sank into the African bush. One of the black servants was wheeling in the drinks tray. Albert smiled to himself. There were always plenty of friends when there were free drinks. And Tina… Harry Brigandshaw. He thought she had forgotten him months ago. The babble of voices was building up in the hall. Waiting until the last moment, he turned to greet their guests. No one was ever invited but that did not matter. There were seven of them. Two women. Neither of them was Sallie.

  Albert made himself a stiff whisky and turned back to look out over the distant bush. Most of the colour had already gone from the sky. There was a new light in Miss Pinforth's cottage. Behind him Tina was doing her thing. Later he was sure one of the men would escort her out to dinner. Or the crowd would all go together.

  Making an excuse, he took his drink to his bedroom and sat on the balcony that led out from the bedroom. He kept the lights off to keep away the mosquitoes. There was no malaria in Johannesburg. The canvas chair was comfortable and Albert fell asleep when he had finished his drink. He would have liked another drink but did not want to talk to the guests. It had been a long, hard day in the explosive factory, making certain all the safety precautions were being observed. Giving orders was one thing. They had to be checked.

  The banging front door woke him. His empty glass was on the floor next to the chair. He would have one more good one in the quiet of the night on his own. Then he would go to bed. He was not hungry.

  To his surprise, the small light was still on over the drinks tray and Tina was using it to read the newspaper.

  "Didn't you go out with them?" asked Albert.

  "He's a hero. Eighteen kills. Military Cross and Bar. Whatever the Bar means."

  "Who?"

  "Harry Brigandshaw."

  "So that's why you didn't want to go out."

  "Yes… It is… You think he'll be all right, Bert?"

  "Of course."

  "They say it's all the hunting he did in the bush. His father was a famous hunter… Why did he leave to go to war?"

  "The Germans killed his brother… I should go."

  "You promised, Bert. Please don't go. You do more for the war effort in the factory. By far. Have another drink and come and talk to me. I couldn't be bothered with all the chatter tonight."

  "You'd better turn off the light or the mosquitoes will eat you alive."

  "Then we'll go inside. I'll make us a sandwich. Have a good chat, you and me."

  "We haven't done that for a long time… You're not tired, are you?"

  "Not any more."

  The next day, and just past eleven o'clock in the morning, on the other side of Parktown, Lily White, born Lily Ramsbottom in south Wigan, was watching Mrs Barker like a cat watches a snake, ready to strike if the danger became real. Lily had eaten four slices of fruitcake for her elevenses and the pangs of hunger and loneliness had gone away for the moment. Mrs Barker was ordering poor Mrs Hardcastle, the cook and housekeeper, left and right. It was hard for Lily not to chuckle out loud. She knew the story. Not so long ago, the high and mighty Mrs Barker was a housekeeper herself, a servant, ordered about from pillar to post. Watching Mrs Barker lash Molly Hardcastle with her tongue, Lily wished someone would order the old bitch to a post on the other side of the world… And just when it looked like she was settling in nicely to the home that would be hers for as long as she wanted. Lily sighed and wondered what she would have to do to get the skinny little rake out of the house. Bill Hardcastle had found an excuse to go shopping. Even though he had not said a word they understood each other. At least she, Lily, had started the process that had led to all the money. All Mrs Barker had done was give herself to a man, but what man could ever have wanted to dip his wick in a spitting viper, Lily could no way comprehend. The poor man had done the sensible thing by killing himself. That much she did know.

  Lily didn't want a man any more. She had satiated her lust on a string of lovers, all of them rich, some of them nice, one of them, Jack Merryweather, she had thought once she even loved. It was not the lack of men that worried Lily, even though she was only forty; there were enough good memories to last her a lifetime. If she wanted a man she would lose her fat and go for the really old men. Fat came from eating. All she had to do was stop eating. No, for Lily it was not the lack of men or even being the centre of male attention. It was loneliness. However much money she still had stashed away from the old whorehouse, it was being left alone that worried Lily White the most. She was terrified, utterly terrified of being left alone. And Sallie Barker was the answer to her prayer. A nice home. Good food. And company every time she wanted it.

  "Would you like a piece of cake, Mrs Barker?" she said sweetly.

  "Haven't you eaten enough?" snapped Mrs Barker turning her attention from the hapless Molly Hardcastle.

  Sallie smiled and said nothing. When Mrs Barker turned back to her first victim, Lily gave Molly a wink. The trick, Lily thought, was to make allies. As many as possible.

  Thousands of miles away Robert St Clair would have given anything for just one piece of Lily White's cake. The rations came through but never a good meal. Canned meat. Canned vegetables, mostly carrots. Canned fruits, mostly plums. Canned corn kernels, big yellow globs that Robert had never seen before in his life. All were stamped made in the USA. Anyone over there with a canning factory was getting rich.

  There had been a lull in the fighting for a week. Both sides were exhausted. It was rumoured the Somme offensive was over. The only thing in abundance on the Western Front, other than machine-gun fire and high explosives, was rumour. Soon the rumour would change, and he would lead his men once again over the top of the trenches, through the freshly cut British wire, into the mud and shell holes of no man's land, waving his swagger stick for how much good that would do, and like a man in constant pain, hoping a bullet would kill him and get it over with.

  Jack Merryweather had been made a major and gone off to another regiment that somehow had more need for a major. Robert was still a captain. He was good at doing the right thing, but not very inventive. Caught out in the open in a shell hole, Robert was more inclined to stay where he was and crawl back to his trench in the dark with his men. Three times he had lived for days in the forward German trench with no idea of what to do next, alone with a few men cut off from orders. He had done what he knew best and eaten the German sausage which was better than anything in a can from America. He watched his men die and blanked his mind to save his sanity.

  On the last attack the colonel had been killed. A new colonel had arrived the previous day. The man had drooping wet eyes like a spaniel's. Not the first sign of a chin. Been in India, they said. Robert kept to himself. The rumours had already started. The new CO had once resigned his commission. Left the regular army. The only 'regular' army Robert had met were well back from the front line with red tabs on their uniforms and red bands round their staff hats.

  Robert was hungry as usual. He missed the company of Jack Merryweather. They had fought side by side for months on end. And it was better not to make friends with the new officers. None of them had lasted very long. The trick, Robert told himself, was to stay in his own cocoon, and if the gods were with him, one day the guns would stop and some of them would walk away alive. Robert forced himself to stay in the moment. Never the past. And never, never the future.

  The men had been stood down, with sentries on the lower fire-steps looking out over the drizzle and mist that covered no man's land. The old hands knew long before an attack. There had not been a German spotter plane for days, even when the rain had stopped. At night they watched more carefully for German patrols. Double sentries at night.
Like every job Robert had done in his life there was a pattern.

  Robert was duty officer, standing at the bottom of the trench below the sentry who was looking through his binoculars, searching the shattered earth for signs of life. Every ten minutes Robert went up and had a good look himself. From months of experience, his eyes could discard the 'normal' in the mangled landscape. He was looking for a straight barrel. Domed shape of a tin hat. A mound that was not there before.

  Robert looked at his watch. Ten o'clock in the morning. Time for his hourly tin mug of sweet tea. His feet were cold, his hands cold, the gas mask heavy on his chest under the coat that was meant to keep out the rain. Robert forced himself not to look for Private Lane and the hot tea.

  "Right behind you, sir."

  "Give it to Jones up top." Robert had not turned round.

  "Two mugs, sir."

  "Thank you, Lane."

  "The mail came up, sir. Three for you. On the table."

  The table was in the dugout with the tarpaulin over the top that was meant to keep out the rain. Robert had been wet through for months.

  "The colonel, sir," whispered Lane.

  Robert turned. The new colonel was walking down the trench with his adjutant. They were never alone, Robert thought. No one was ever left alone. Putting his tea carefully on the fire-step, he made himself ready to salute. They had seen each other twice but never spoken. Robert thought they were probably about the same age. Saluting none too well, he reported nothing happening as he was expected to and waited for the colonel to pass on down the trench.

  "You have any more of that tea, Private Lane?" asked the colonel.

  "Yes, sir." Both Robert's and his batman's face registered surprise at the new colonel knowing Lane's name.

  "Carry on up the line, adjutant," said the colonel.

  Robert waited for the tea and the new colonel to speak. His tea was getting cold on the fire-step so he picked it up and drank. What did you say to someone who had the right to speak first?