The Beaufort Sisters

by Jon Cleary

‘I can see how you could fall for her – she’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think she could love anyone but herself. And if that’s the only way you can keep your place in a man’s world, I don’t think it’s for me.’

  Sally went to the window and looked out on the farmlands stretching away under the greenish-blue sky. Some of the men, led by Rudi, were already going out to shoot, moving in groups of two or three, guns over their shoulders, the rich Maquis of the post-war world. They strode across the fields with certainty, as if any living creature, bird, hare, woman, was fair game for them. Ducks scribbled a black line across the sky, heading south, refusing to be the enemy. Gaston Onza, walking alone, turned and looked back at the house and raised his gun in salute. Sally waved in reply, an automatic gesture. Then she realized that he was not saluting her but Michele at another window. He turned and walked on, as arrogantly sure of himself as all the men in front of him.

  ‘But what a coincidence,’ Prue said. ‘Meeting her here – of all places!’

  ‘Not really.’ She turned back from the window, began to undress. ‘I remember Magnus once telling me – above a certain level in business or politics or diplomacy or whatever, he said the world was divided up into parishes just like everything else. The boundaries, he said, are just money or status. So the coincidence is pretty small. I don’t know what gets Michele’s husband into this parish, but he obviously belongs. I noticed it when I lived in Europe before. After a while you keep meeting the same people.’

  ‘We must find out what he does. He’s smooth, I’ll say that for him.’

  ‘I remember Michele telling me something about him, just before she left me to go off with him. She said there were only thirteen black college graduates in the whole of the Belgian Congo and he was one of them. One graduate for every million blacks, something like that. The Belgians didn’t believe in educating the natives.’

  ‘Well, now the natives are independent maybe he’s a big shot. That would suit your friend Michele. Big shot would be her line, I think.’

  ‘You don’t have to be so nasty.’

  ‘I’m being nasty to protect you. Can’t you see the danger there? I don’t mean the lesbian bit – fall in love with any girl you like, if that’s how you are. But Michele – ’ Prue shook her head. ‘She’d never bring you happiness. Please be careful this weekend.’

  Sally was both annoyed and moved by Prue’s concern for her. ‘You watch out yourself. Some of those unattached shooters were eyeing you.’

  ‘I’m no sitting duck. But there was a Frenchman there, Guy someone-or-other …’

  In the afternoon the women went out with the men. The wind had dropped and the sun laid long shadows across the heath. Estate workers beat their way towards a long line of trees; birds exploded out of the long grass and guns went off in a quick battery of fire. Beyond the line of trees was East Germany: Sally wondered what the border patrols there thought of all the shooting. Prue had been taken in tow by her Frenchman who at lunch had given her more attention than he was now giving to his gun. Sally lingered behind with Michele. She was a good shot and would have liked the offer of a gun, but she could not resist the lure of Michele’s company.

  Sitting on their shooting-sticks, wrapped in their fleece-lined suede coats, they watched the line of guns disappear towards the trees. A jet went by high overhead, sketching a chalk mark of contrail in the cold sky; Sally looked up at it and suddenly felt the urge to be up there, flying her own plane. Escaping again.

  ‘I’ve often thought of you.’ Michele put a cigarette into a holder, lit it, then blew out smoke in a thin stream. ‘The times we had.’

  Sally turned up the collar of her coat. ‘It’s all finished, Michele. I’ve gone through too much.’

  ‘I heard Philip was dead only months afterwards. I came to Rome again and telephoned your apartment. The housekeeper said Philip had died in an accident.’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it. I lost my baby at the same time.’

  ‘Oh, my darling!’ Michele put out a sympathetic hand; Sally, against her will, felt her own hand clasped. ‘Why didn’t you write me?’

  Sally carefully drew her hand away. ‘Michele, what’s the use? You’re tied to Gaston.’ She changed the subject, afraid of it. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  Michele gazed towards the distant trees; the hunters were almost invisible against the dark frieze. ‘The Congo is full of men who want to run it. Gaston is one of them.’

  ‘You mean he wants to be President or whatever it is you have out there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to be the President’s wife?’

  Michele turned her head slowly: regally: or presidentially. The modest house in Ouagadougou, the drunken French engineer who had been her father, the Mandingo woman from Guinea who had been her mother: they were all a long way behind her. She had come a long way and the road was not yet finished.

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  ‘Is Rudi going to help your husband?’

  ‘Gaston needs certain things. Money, too,’ she added, looking sideways at Sally, who pretended to miss the hint. ‘It’s a rich country, especially Katanga province. The right backers would find it a profitable investment.’

  ‘If you’re suggesting I should talk to my father – no.’

  Michele stared at her, face set, eyes hard; then she relaxed, smiled. ‘Darling, I still love you. You try so hard to remain innocent – ’

  Sally interrupted. ‘Don’t patronize me. You people always sneer at us Americans. But you know where to come when you want a hand-out.’

  Michele smiled again: you could not insult her, she had become inured to abuse. ‘Darling, you shouldn’t be so sensitive. If Gaston wanted money from Americans, he would not go to Kansas City. He wouldn’t have to go further west than Wall Street. As it happens, we don’t think we’ll have to cross the Atlantic at all.’ She looked towards the trees again; the hunters were lost among them now. ‘If this weekend turns out as we hope – ’

  ‘Who else knows why you’re here?’

  ‘Only Rudi and the Belgian, M. Luc.’ Sally had sat next to the Belgian at lunch, a large fat man who looked as if he would have trouble getting a gun to his shoulder. ‘I think you’d better not mention to anyone what I’ve told you. Gaston would kill me if he knew – ’ She looked at Sally. ‘I mean it. He doesn’t place much value on life. Except his own.’

  ‘Why do you stay with him?’

  There was another burst of fire, this time from beyond the trees; the hunters must now be within sight of the border patrols. The wind began to rise again, coming down from the Baltic, bringing messages of winter: coldness against the cheek, the last birds fleeing south, the skeletons of trees appearing even as one watched them. The first of the hunters came back through the copse, guns still warm, laughing and calling to each other, happy with the kill.

  ‘I’ve just told you,’ Michele said. ‘He can take me further than anyone else. Further, darling, than I could ever have gone with you.’

  That night, when they were undressed, Prue said, ‘I’m spending the night with Guy.’

  Guy de Belfrage had hardly left Prue’s side during the afternoon and evening. He was a man of medium height, young and handsome and with Gallic charm that he kept on a rein; Rudi Schnatz, as if feeling it was the proper reference in the circumstances, had mentioned to Sally that Guy was also wealthy and not a fortune-hunter. Sally had liked what she had seen and was not surprised when Prue made her announcement.

  ‘Good luck. And be careful.’

  Prue looked at her bed, the covers turned down. ‘I wish you’d picked out someone at dinner to keep you company. That nice boy Hans had his eye on you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m still getting over the effects of driving in that rally. I’ll sleep better alone.’

  Prue pulled on a robe over her night-gown, opened the door and stood stockstill. Then she looked back over her shoulder and said coldly, �
�There’s someone here to say goodnight.’

  She went out and Michele came in, closing the door behind her. She wore a scarlet silk robe that made her look like a dark cardinal. She sat down on Prue’s bed, gazed at Sally propped against the pillows in the other bed.

  ‘Gaston is in conference with Rudi and M. Luc. I thought I’d come and say goodnight.’

  Sally watched her carefully, afraid of temptation. She suddenly wished Prue had not deserted her; but maybe the temptation of Guy was as strong as that she felt herself. ‘What’s the point of starting again, Michele?’

  ‘Darling, why do you always think in the long term? Love is never permanent anyway.’

  She stood up, let the red silk slip from her: the dark incomparable body was as perfect as ever. Unhurriedly she pulled back the covers of Sally’s bed and slid in beside her.

  2

  In the morning Mary Venneker said she would not be coming back to London. ‘Rudi has asked me to stay on in Hamburg. I think marriage is in the air.’

  Sally and Prue kissed her, delighted at the happiness in her long handsome face. ‘If it’s a big wedding, ask us,’ said Prue. ‘My three sisters have been married, one of them twice, and I’ve never yet been to a white wedding. Though – ’ She paused and looked at Sally. ‘I think I could wangle one for myself.’

  ‘With Guy? Not so soon?’

  ‘I’m going to have another look at him in his home territory. I’m not coming back to London, either – not right away. Guy is taking me home to meet his mother – his father’s dead. They live in the Loire, near Saumur. He’s actually a count, Comte de Belfrage. How would that sound back home in the Independent?’

  ‘You, a title-hunter. I never thought I’d live to see the day.’

  Prue looked at Mary, soon to be a baroness. ‘These peasants really don’t know about love at our level, do they?’

  Mary, in love with Rudi at any and all levels, waved her arms ecstatically, like a semaphorist gone mad. ‘Oh, everyone should be as lucky as we are! Find yourself someone, Sally, and join the club!’

  ‘I may do that,’ said Sally, but avoided Prue’s eyes which were once again shrewd and alert.

  They drove back to Hamburg that afternoon. But first Sally said goodbye to Michele and Gaston Onza, shaking hands with each of them, careful to give nothing away to Gaston, who also had a shrewd and alert eye. And a cold one: Sally could imagine his killing someone. She shivered, but she had already turned away and if Gaston noticed it she hoped he had put it down to the cold wind that was bringing rain in from the north.

  ‘Goodbye, darling,’ said Michele. ‘Come and visit us in Katanga some day.’

  Sally saw Onza’s quick look at Michele when she said the word Katanga. But Sally protected her lover: she did her best to look innocent. ‘Katanga? Wherever it is, I may do that some day.’

  She dropped Prue and Guy off in Hamburg to catch a plane for Paris, then drove on alone to London. Three days later Prue returned to the house in Wilton Crescent, bringing Guy with her.

  ‘We’re going to be married. I’m taking Guy home to meet the family. He’d better know what he’s marrying into.’

  ‘Where will you be married?’

  ‘Guy’s mother has the most marvellous chateau – a girl could have a dream wedding there. But we think we owe it to Daddy to see if he wants me married at home.’

  Sally, as always, was amused at the mixture in Prue. She was a romantic who could sometimes sound as cold-blooded as a prostitute about sex; she was selfish about what she wanted to do with her own life but she would have her wedding, the most important event in her life up till now, wherever her father wanted it. Sally wondered what Guy would make of the mixture.

  Right now he obviously thought the mixture was wonderful. But he was not gauche in his devotion; she was not the first girl in his life. Sally, not a good judge of men, gave him the benefit of her doubt and decided that at worst he would be a one-woman-at-a-time man. Love is never permanent … She hated herself for being infected by Michele’s cynicism.

  ‘We’ll be married in May or June,’ said Guy.

  ‘Just in time for the tornado season back home.’ It was obvious that Prue wanted to be married at the chateau in the Loire. ‘We’ll point that out to Daddy.’

  ‘Kansas City has been hit only about once in the past fifty years,’ said Sally. ‘That one four years ago. Don’t try to influence Daddy. Let him make up his own mind.’

  While Prue was out of the room Guy said, ‘Your father – Prue tells me he is not enthusiastic about foreigners.’

  Sally smiled. ‘Especially the French. But he hasn’t exactly been lucky all round, so I shouldn’t let it worry you. He’s due for a change of prejudice.’

  Prue and Guy left two days later for America. Sally debated whether she should go with them, not wanting to be alone in London; but decided she would be surplus cargo. If Prue needed support against Lucas, there would be Nina and Meg on hand. So Sally stayed on in London, feeling more lost and lonely each morning as she got up and looked out at the grey November skies. She had to get away to some sunshine. But where?

  Then one noon the phone rang. ‘I’m in London, darling. Can I come and see you?’

  Anyone was welcome, even Michele. Particularly her … ‘Is Gaston with you?’

  ‘No. How soon can I see you? It’s urgent.’

  She could not remember anything ever being urgent with Michele. ‘Come round now. We’ll have lunch.’ She had never been able to bring herself to say luncheon: but that, probably, would be the least of her sins now in Edith’s eyes.

  Michele arrived swathed in mink against the cold day. Hislop, the manservant, took the coat and gave her a discreetly admiring glance. So far all the visitors to his new employer had had style and looks, but this darkie was something out of the box; he had the usual English prejudice about colour, but if they all looked like this one he wouldn’t mind England being taken over by the blackies. But Michele did not see him or his admiring look. Below a certain level she was socially blind: there were no dividends from servants unless they were one’s own. Hislop’s and her prejudices matched each other, the one thing they had in common.

  Sally had not even enquired of the cook what was for lunch: Prue would have done better. It was brown Windsor soup, a cutlet, potatoes and peas, a trifle. The cook had once worked at Eton: what was good anough for schoolboy gentry was good enough for Americans. Michele looked at each course as if it were a plate of African mealies; but she made no comment. Food, good or bad, can sometimes bring men closer together; but not women. Michele had other things on her mind besides her palate.

  Over coffee she said, ‘We need money desperately, darling. Everything with Rudi and M. Luc has fallen through. The other side got to M. Luc and now he doesn’t want to know us.’

  ‘Who’s us? Just you and Gaston?’

  ‘And some others. The Congo is there for grabs, as you Americans say. Any one of a dozen men could come out on top. Tshombé, Kasavubu, Mulele. And Gaston. But we need money – in a hurry.’

  Sally knew she should close the subject at once; but boredom with her life, loneliness, plain curiosity, made her ask, ‘Why?’

  ‘We have arms and men waiting just over the border in Angola. The Portuguese would like to see Gaston take over, but they don’t want to upset their own apple-cart by appearing to take sides. So they turn a blind eye and let us keep our men and equipment there. But now payment is due – for the men and the equipment. Planes, tanks, things like that. All second-hand but still good.’

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Four million dollars. Almost.’

  ‘Four milli – ?’ She laughed, suddenly seeing how farcical it all was. She had expected Michele to be more intelligent and practical-minded; ambition had got the better of her. ‘Are you wanting me to ask my father for that much? He’d just shut the door in my face.’

  ‘I told you in Germany – our country is rich. Any investment there would be
returned tenfold in five years. Gaston will sign options – he’s a man who honours his business deals. Your father could check with Union Minière in Brussels – ’

  Sally shook her head. ‘No, Michele. I know Daddy too well. It would be useless asking him.’

  Michele pushed her coffee away from her, making a face: the whole lunch had been a total failure, she had wasted her time coming here. ‘I thought you might help. You’re bored – you told me that at Rudi’s place – ’

  She couldn’t remember what she had said in bed that night. She sat silent, staring out through the lace curtains at the grey rain falling out of the grey sky into the grey street.

  ‘Darling – Have you any money of your own?’

  She turned her head slowly, away from the grey unpromising day. ‘Yes. But what would I get for it?’

  ‘What do you want?’ The black eyes glistened with diamonds of hope: all wasn’t yet lost.

  ‘Not a tenfold return on my investment. I’m not interested in money.’

  Ah, how easily the rich can say that. ‘I wouldn’t leave Gaston – not if he becomes President. But I could come to Europe three or four times a year – Is that what you want?’

  Oh God, why can’t I say no to her? ‘I’d like more … I can lend you the four million dollars.’

  Michele leaned forward: Sally had never seen her so excited, except in bed. ‘Do you have to go back to Kansas City for it? We don’t have much time – ’

  ‘It’s in Zurich. I’ll have to go there – ’

  Michele rose, took Sally’s face in her hands and kissed her on the lips. Her musky scent was strong: she was as excited as if by sex. ‘Darling, we’ll have such times together – ’

  They left that afternoon for Switzerland. On the way over they discussed how the money was to be got to Katanga. To transfer it to a bank in the Congo would only result in its being confiscated by the present government; a strict watch was kept on all money coming into and going out of the country. To lodge it in a bank in Angola would only result in delay and a possible leakage of the news that it was there. Most of the money could be lodged in a bank in Switzerland: three million dollars, the price of the equipment. But the other million was needed in the Congo, to pay the troops and provide for all the ancillary needs of a small army.