To the Manor Born

by Peter Rimmer

  “Who will right now be missing us terribly.”

  “Not me, Harry. You. You and your aeroplane. The boy adores you.”

  “Remember, those children don’t have a father. On Elephant Walk, we are one large, extended family. Can you imagine young Tinus living in England?”

  “No, Harry,” said Tina miserably. “Why is life always so complicated?”

  “Not complicated. Challenging. Don’t you like a challenge?”

  “Not all of them.”

  * * *

  Christopher Marlowe had finished the fourth set at Clara’s the following night when Barnaby St Clair walked into the supper club with a crowd of people who had come from a theatre show. In the party was Brett Kentrich. Her own show had finished an hour earlier. Christopher gave her a long wonderful look before she saw him staring at her. She sat down at a table. She was smiling her bored ‘I know I’m a star’ look but none of that mattered to Christopher. To him, she was just beautiful. Quite beautiful.

  The other musicians had gone off, leaving their instruments on the stand. Christopher was about to follow them when he saw Brett come into the room. Surreptitiously he adjusted his wig that he wore at work in the evenings. The wig had been made from his own hair, eight months ago. Christopher was Christopher Marlowe at night; the bohemian with the black beret and the long hair who played the piano in a supper club. During the day he was Barrington Madgwick in his late father’s office, learning the trade; going through each department of the shipping company; learning the pitfalls and profit of the Baltic Exchange. He had sold only half his soul to the devil.

  Brett, looking around the diners gave her bohemian admirer one last look. Christopher was sure she enjoyed their exchanges. It was what kept up his hope. That and the musical he was writing for her. The Golden Moth could not go on forever. She would need something else to play. Except that the musical he was writing was not very good. Christopher was bad at believing in himself.

  The trumpeter was writing down the music when Christopher played the next song to him at the end of an evening and the guests had all gone home. Sometimes a drunk or two were still at the bar. The trumpeter had played in the London Symphony Orchestra and could read and write music. Some of the songs he said were quite good. Usually, he changed them a little to make them better. The trumpeter could also play the piano. Journeymen, the both of them, or so they both thought of themselves.

  “You are a lovesick fool,” Danny Hill had said to Christopher more than once. “If it wasn’t so damnably romantic I wouldn’t waste my time.”

  “You are a gem, Danny. A rare gem. God in heaven will reward you. Now, please play that back to me again. If I could only sing in tune I would sing the words.”

  “You really are a mess.”

  “I’m afraid you are right.”

  * * *

  “She’s here,” said Danny, sitting back on his stool, bending to pick up his trumpet from where he had left it on the floor. Danny opened the valve at the end of the instrument to let out the water from his spittle, blowing through the mouthpiece.

  “I know,” said Christopher miserably.

  “Aren’t you too old to behave like a lovesick calf?”

  “You are never too old, Danny.”

  “Thirty-one years old.” Danny was shaking his head. The other members of the band were joining them. The trombone player was slightly drunk as usual. Clara gave her signal to the band. Christopher ran his fingers over the piano keys to get everyone’s attention on the bandstand. They had a fixed routine. A list of music. It never changed, night after night. Once Christopher suggested something new. A current hit from The Golden Moth. They all gave him a queer look. The best thing any band could follow was a strict routine. To avoid mistakes as much as possible.

  The band struck up a tune. The crooner crooned into the microphone. Diners got up to dance. Brett stood up with one of the people at her table. Christopher was playing with his head turned not looking at the piano. He had played the tune so many times there was no need to look at the keys. Another late party was winding through the tables to the only one left in the room. The girl in front of the new party caught Christopher’s attention. If anything, she was prettier than Brett Kentrich. Certainly sexier though not Christopher’s type he assured himself. All the men were watching her glide between the tables towards the one that was empty. The girl had short-cropped brown hair with a suggestion of red hovering among the curls. The strap under her red dress, dictated by the current flat-chest fashion, was fighting a losing battle under the smooth silk of the material. An older man was following close behind the girl, his right hand lightly resting on her left elbow. The man looked confident, his eyes moving around the diners, watching over his girl. The man at the girl’s elbow had the thousand-yard stare Christopher had seen so many times during the war. The tall man with the sunburnt face had been in the war. The man had killed many times. Christopher was sure of it. The sunburnt skin suggested to Christopher the man had fought in the desert. With Lawrence in Arabia.

  The party had reached the edge of the dance floor, almost at the empty table where Clara was hovering, waiting to greet her late guests. They had to be important or Clara would not have kept the table so late. Into Christopher Marlowe’s vision flowed Brett Kentrich on the arm of Barnaby St Clair who the previous year had tried to unmask him in front of Clara. Barnaby was leering over Brett’s shoulder in a way that made Christopher want to hit him in the face. Deliberately, Barnaby turned his dancing partner to look at the table where Clara was seating the new guests. Brett looked bored, much to Christopher satisfaction. Brett was no more than twenty feet from the piano. Brett’s face turned into a look of great excitement. The girl in the red dress waved at Brett, taking the smile off Brett’s face. The older man caught sight of Brett and his face lit up the way Brett’s face had lit up with excitement. The man moved towards the dancers on the floor but there were other couples in the way. Barnaby St Clair seemed to know the older man giving him a wave. A man wearing a monocle behind the older man stopped in his tracks. The tableau froze for a moment before Brett broke free and walked off the dance floor on her own. She was almost running.

  Christopher turned back to the keyboard wondering what the palaver was all about. Sadly, he thought, it had nothing to do with him. When Christopher looked back, again the older man with the thousand-yard stare was following Brett out of the room, running after her. From Christopher’s angle of sight on the piano stool, he could see Brett was crying. The girl in the red dress was looking livid; she did everything except stamp her foot. Christopher went on playing the piano. He was not sure whether to be sad or happy. Not that it would matter. He and Brett together were nothing but a dream.

  * * *

  Barnaby St Clair had felt a surge of raging jealousy at the sight of Harry Brigandshaw’s right hand resting protectively on Tina’s elbow. He had known for some time they were married. He had done his mathematics when the birth of Anthony was published in The Times. She had caught the wealthy Harry Brigandshaw by getting herself pregnant. Only his lifelong training to always give the appearance of being a gentleman stopped him from causing a scene. Then he remembered the girl he was dancing with had once been Harry Brigandshaw’s live-in lady, and sometime friend of Tina. Instead of going mad, he took revenge, turning Brett to look at Harry with his hand lightly resting on Tina’s elbow.

  It had all gone better than he had hoped, leaving him with a big smirk on his face. He was still smirking as he walked across the dance floor to his brother Merlin and the only girl in his life who had ever meant a thing to him. Probably the only person. From the earliest memory of his life.

  Tina’s face watching Harry run out after Brett was indeed sweet revenge. The girl was showing panic, something he had never before seen on Tina’s face, even the first time he threw her in the river when they were six and seven years old. Not even when he yanked her pigtails for which he received a stinging slap in the face. In that second his Tina
knew her Harry still loved Brett. The girl who still lived in Harry’s Regent Mews flat. The one whose career had been made spectacular with Harry Brigandshaw putting money into The Golden Moth. Her angel behind the impresario, Oscar Fleming.

  By the time Barnaby reached the table, he was laughing with happiness, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

  “I say, Merlin, where’s old Harry going? Hello, Tina, old gal. How’s married life? Congratulations on becoming a mother.”

  “You don’t want to sit down, do you, Barnaby?” said Merlin.

  “Of course I do. Harry was our brother-in-law for goodness’ sake. He’s been away for ages. I’m sure he’ll be back in a tick. Darling Clara, be a dear and ask one of your stewards to bring us a bottle of champagne. Heidsieck Dry Monopole should fit the spirit of the family reunion. My goodness Tina, weren’t you wearing a red dress in Meikles that day I borrowed ten pounds from that chap, Bowman? Red suits you. Definitely suits you.”

  “You never gave back the ten pounds.” Tina was glaring at Barnaby.

  “How thoughtless of me. Doesn’t the chap work for Harry in Africa? Now that is good luck. I can give you the ten pounds and you can give it to Bowman. I’ll make the cheque out to cash. Clara, darling, a pen? A gentleman always pays his debts. How remiss of me. How are you, Merlin? So nice to see my brother for a change. How are the mater and pater? Haven’t had a chance to get down to Dorset for ages… Oh, good. Here comes Harry. Didn’t I say he’d be back in just a tick…? Harry, dear chap. How are you? So good to see you. Took the liberty while you were away of ordering a bottle of bubbly to celebrate. Come and sit down. The food here is excellent.”

  “And how is Brett, Harry?” Tina asked Harry icily.

  “She’s crying, I’m afraid.”

  “So would I be if I’d been dumped.”

  “It wasn’t like that, Tina.”

  “No. It probably wasn’t the way you looked at her on the dance floor.”

  “Tina! Darling! No scene.” Barnaby was grinning and licking his lips at the same time.

  “Shut up, Barnaby.”

  “Why don’t you stamp your foot, Tina. You used to do that as a child when you couldn’t get your own way.”

  “I also kicked you in the shins.”

  “Children, really,” said Harry taking control. “I’m very sorry, Tina. Of course, I was pleased to see Brett. It won’t happen again.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “The meeting was an accident,” said Merlin putting the monocle back in his eye from where it had fallen on the cord on to his chest. He glared around at the people looking at them. The sight of the one coal-black iris made one woman actually shiver.

  “I’m sure that chap at the piano is Barrington Madgwick, Clara. The chap I told you I met during the war.” Barnaby was busy changing the subject, still enjoying himself immensely.

  “At night he is Christopher Marlowe. During the day he’s Barrie Madgwick.” The worst thing that could happen in her supper club was a bad scene. Clara was happy to sacrifice Christopher for a diversion.

  “How extraordinary. So I was right after all… I think I’ll go and find Brett and bring her back so we can all be civilised.”

  “That would be good of you, Barnaby,” said Harry. “Tina would you go and help Barnaby. Brett is in the powder room. You two I remember were once friends, something our marriage must not change. Any more than you and Barnaby having known each other all your lives… By the by, Barnaby, my wife is expecting our second child.”

  “Oh, that is wonderful,” said Merlin. “We’ll make tonight a real celebration. Will the others at your table mind if you and Miss Kentrich join us, Barnaby?”

  “Why ever should they, Merlin?”

  “You should still make her excuses. Where are your manners, Barnaby? You must come round to the flat more often. Goodness me, we only live around the corner from each other.”

  * * *

  The set was just over when Clara told Christopher she had told Barnaby St Clair his real name. She had her reason. Running a successful business that entailed people drinking alcohol required good information about the patrons. Making certain that enemies were not seated at tables next to each other was just one of them. Clara had been appalled at the sight of Barnaby St Clair turning Brett Kentrich to look at Harry Brigandshaw holding the one-time Tina Pringle with the questionable social background. She had never seen Harry in her life before in the flesh but she knew the story. She had seen photographs. Of the chairman of Colonial Shipping. Of the girl who had once been Tina Pringle promoting herself in Tatler.

  “If we don’t do something, Christopher, those two women are going to scratch each other’s eyes out. Make it look as though you are doing your rounds and head for their table. You know exactly which one I’m talking about. If needs be, stay there the evening. Just keep the peace. The band can play without you. No, tell Danny Hill to take over the piano if he sees you are not back at your stool for the start of the next set. Please, Christopher. This time I need your help. Talk about the army. Brigandshaw was in the Royal Flying Corps. The man with the two colour eyes is Barnaby St Clair’s brother. Brigandshaw was married to their sister before she was killed. Use all your charm, for goodness’ sake. A shouting match will be bad enough. A brawl, a disaster.”

  “How do you know all these things, Miss Clara?”

  “There’s more to this business than dishing up the food. Or playing them familiar music. Or giving them the smarm.”

  * * *

  Christopher had watched Brett come back dry-eyed, her head high, the consummate actress once again. She had stopped at her first table, kissed the girl on both cheeks who had been sitting next to her, and gone across to the table that Clara thought might cause all the trouble. Brett was smiling when she sat down next to the older man. All the men had stood up when she and the girl in the red dress came back. Barnaby had come back alone earlier. At that point, Christopher had imagined the incident was over.

  Christopher moved between the tables greeting the patrons. The patrons liked being greeted by someone from the band. It was all part of the smarm… Then he made his move.

  “I say, aren’t you the Honourable Barnaby St Clair? Back in ’16 in France. You were over with your major to look at trench warfare. From Palestine. That was before Lawrence raised the Arabs in revolt against the Turks. I was a captain in The Royal Dragoon Guards in those days. Glad to see you made it through the war. Barrington Madgwick. I’m sorry, don’t you remember?”

  “What on earth are you doing playing the piano?”

  “We all have our foibles. Here they know me as the Bohemian, Christopher Marlowe. During the day, I work at my late father’s office in the City. Father was chairman of the Baltic Exchange before he died. I hate the City.”

  “Don’t blame you,” said the older man. “Come and sit down with me. Harry Brigandshaw. My foible is running a farm in Africa when I should be running Colonial Shipping. My grandfather started the business. So you know Barnaby? This is Miss Brett Kentrich who I am sure you recognise. This is the Honourable Merlin St Clair. Their father’s Lord St Clair of Purbeck. I was married to his daughter Lucinda before she was killed. And now, the most important person in my life and the mother of my son. May I introduce to you my wife, Mrs Tina Brigandshaw? Are you allowed to drink champagne while you are playing the piano?”

  “Fact is the trombone player is already drunk. Plays his best music drunk. Goes with playing music. You have to be drunk to play all night.”

  “By strange coincidence, I’ve met your brother, Ralph. Flew over him when he was camped on an eyrie overlooking the Zambezi River valley. Gave him my books on archaeology when he visited Elephant Walk. Had a chap from school with him. Keppel Howland, as I remember. They went off into the bush looking for diamonds. Never heard another word. The world really is small. From a cave overlooking the Zambezi to a supper club in London… Miss Kentrich plays the lead in The Golden Moth at Drury Lane.”

&nb
sp; “I know,” said Christopher smiling at her. She had made up his mind smiling back at him. He was finished playing the piano for the evening. “Excuse me for a moment. I have to change. Danny will be playing the next set for me. We swap around.”

  When Christopher Marlowe came back, he was Barrington Madgwick. The wig made from his own hair had gone along with the black beret. He was wearing evening clothes like the rest of them. No one in the supper club recognised the young man about town joining the table as the piano player. Brett was smiling again. The crisis was over. Clara gave Christopher a small wave, unseen, from the back of the club. The evening flowed on smoothly. Christopher marvelled at the power of money. Brett Kentrich smirked at Christopher Marlowe. Ignored his longing looks. At Barrington Madgwick with his inherited money, she was smiling and patting the empty chair next to her, the chair the steward had pulled out for him from the table. The nasty taste in his mouth must have shown in his eyes. She was now looking at him as a mother would look at a child.

  * * *

  Brett leaned her mouth close to the man now seated next to her. She knew exactly what Clara had done. And why. She was now feeling better after the first shock of seeing Harry. Most relationships ended in disaster anyway. It was just that theirs had been over before she had wanted it. The fact Tina Pringle was a first-class bitch and money-grabber had only added fuel to her flame of rejection.

  “I’ve known who you are for months, Barrie. You’re quite famous in musical circles. Not many with old money enter into our profession. They consider it beneath themselves. Maybe a few well-written sonnets published privately and bound in leather to relieve their artistic frustration. Having too much money and not enough to do must be such a bore.”