To the Manor Born

by Peter Rimmer

“I’m not a very good piano player.”

  “Does it matter? It’s what other people think of you that counts. The snobby crowd here love Christopher Marlowe, the piano player who writes poetry in an attic as most of them think. Talking down to a half-starved bohemian makes them feel so much more superior. People like to feel superior to others, haven’t you noticed?”

  “I do live in an attic.”

  “I’m so sorry. Not now, surely?”

  “Oh, yes. I prefer the people.”

  At that moment, Barrie Madgwick wished he was Christopher Marlowe back sitting on his piano stool. There he was real. Here he was being forced to play a part.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve hurt your feelings.”

  “You didn’t mean that sarcastically, did you?” He had heard the changed tone of her voice.

  “No, I didn’t, Christopher.”

  “Maybe we have more in common than we think.”

  “I hope we do. Now, here is not the place to find out. I’m very tired. Mentally more than physically… They look good dancing together, Harry and Tina don’t they…? Be careful of Barnaby St Clair. I don’t know much about his brother. Please see me out of the club before they all come back… Did you know the woman dancing with the brother with the different coloured eyes is a whore?”

  “She was sitting at your table with Barnaby.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact she is a whore… No, I’ve changed my mind. They’re all coming back. Running away would give that bitch a victory. Be a dear and get into deep conversation with me. I’m sure you don’t want to talk about the war. Neither do the others. The ones who did the fighting never do… Harry was a famous fighter pilot… You and I talking quietly so they can’t hear will give a much better impression. The bitch will hate that. I’m too tired for verbal sword fighting. Believe it or not, running around the stage singing all night knocks the stuffing out of you. Even when they do clap madly… Who do I talk to? Christopher or Barrington?”

  “Just imagine the wig and the beret.” Christopher managed to put on a small smile.

  Brett laughed. It was the first time Christopher had heard her laugh. A genuine laugh. It came from deep down in her throat. More like a healthy chuckle between old friends. As though something had tickled her funny bone.

  * * *

  The most abhorrent thing in Merlin St Clair’s life was the chance of a public scene. He would do anything to run away. Including dancing with Millie Scott who had been sitting at the actress’s table where she barely belonged. Merlin had met her years before when she was eighteen and dancing at the Hippodrome at the start of the war. She had long legs and walked like a queen. It was in the days when Merlin liked to send flowers backstage to pretty showgirls. The idea had grown during the war when officers back on shore leave had little time to spare and associating with the lower classes didn’t seem to matter at the time. The chance of later embarrassment was far less than being killed on the Western Front. Some of the girls even said they were doing their bit for the war effort.

  To escape his current predicament, Merlin had gone across and formally asked Millie Scott to dance, bowing with his right hand held up behind his back. Before he left to ask the girl to dance, Merlin had watched Harry go off to dance with his new wife. The man who was once the piano player and now Barrington Madgwick was sitting down next to Brett Kentrich. She was talking into the man’s ear. Manners and good behaviour seemed to be a thing of the past. With great fear in his heart at an appalling scene about to happen with himself at the centre, he had made his escape. Now all the dancers were going back to their tables. Barnaby was nowhere to be seen but that was nothing unusual. The strange success of his brother’s business, so far as Merlin could see, was based on Barnaby’s many social contacts. Brother Barnaby was probably working the room. Being his charming self. Trawling for information that could make him more money on the stock exchange.

  Depositing Millie Scott back at her table with a formal bow, and receiving a funny look from Millie that asked what was going on, Merlin went back to the table he had gone to so much trouble to secure, the table that was meant to be just for the three of them. If only Barnaby had gone to another of his many haunts, the nightmare would not be happening. Then he saw his brother in conversation with the man Merlin knew to be a banker in the City. He changed course and leant towards his brother close to the ear on the opposite side to the banker.

  “Stay away from my table, Barnaby,” he hissed.

  As he walked away, he heard Barnaby say to everyone at the table so that he could hear, “Message from the mater… You all know my brother Merlin.” He was turning around and smiling at his brother as he said it.

  Merlin turned swiftly after giving his brother a flash of hatred. He didn’t care if anyone saw. Whenever anything happened to change Merlin’s placid life, it was caused by Barnaby. What Barnaby had been doing with Tina Pringle in the first place was beyond his comprehension. In his bad temper his own infatuation with the now Mrs Harry Brigandshaw was quite forgotten.

  “Barnaby sends his regards, Harry,” he said back at the table, “he will not be joining us again tonight.”

  He could think of absolutely nothing to say to the piano player. So far as Merlin was concerned, once a piano player was always a piano player.

  * * *

  Millie Scott watched the performance between the brothers and cursed her naïvety. If she had only been a whore for the last ten years instead of picking up her legs in the chorus line, she would have had something more to show for it instead of the sordid bedsitter off the Bayswater Road. She had slept with more men than she could count as she liked to sleep with men, but more the fool had never taken a penny despite what everyone else thought. There had been hope with the impresarios that it would lead to better things back when she was very young. Now at the age of twenty-eight all she still had were legs that went all the way up to her armpits, as she liked to tell everyone, and nothing else, not even her startlingly good looks which were fading. Every night she had to look in the mirror to put on her make-up. The eyes in the same old face were tired. The bloom of youth had gone.

  “You think she’ll get back with Harry?” she asked of the girl next to her.

  “Not a chance. He’s married with a kid,” said her friend Blanche. They were both in the same predicament and understood each other.

  “At least she’s got a free leasehold flat off Regent Street for the next sixty years. And a red car.”

  “How do you know these things, Millie?”

  “I listen. What was all that about with the Honourable Mr Nibs, Merlin St Clair?”

  “I have no bloody idea.”

  “Who’s the bloke with high and mighty Brett?”

  “I have no bloody idea.”

  “The piano player you came to drool over has gone for the night. Must be sick. The trumpeter’s sitting down at the piano to play.”

  “Just my luck. You ever had the feeling, Blanche, you just can’t win?”

  “Every day is a new start.”

  “Bloody optimist… Where are all the men at our table tonight? Bloody hen party.”

  “Don’t swear. You know I’m religious.”

  “Sorry, luv.”

  * * *

  Danny Hill was an opportunist who took his chances knowing they were few and far between. He had put each of Christopher Marlowe’s songs on sheet music. He had written the score separately for trumpet, trombone, piano and clarinet. The words to the songs he had added for the crooner. Everyone in the band except Christopher Marlowe could read music. All the members of the band were in on the plan, waiting for the opportunity to play Christopher’s music at Clara’s. Whether the diners were sick of the same music every night, Danny was not sure. The band certainly were, even if the familiar tunes brought the couples on to the dance floor which is what Clara said it was all about.

  Having been warned by Clara to take over the piano at the start of the previous set, Danny had used the
short intermission to hand out his sheets of music to the band. He had also had a word with Clara. Clara had agreed. Any distraction to calm the flashing looks between the St Clair brothers was worth trying. At the worst, nobody would listen or dance.

  The crooner was an old hand at working an audience. Happy to have a chance to sing a new song he had read the words through three times during the interval. Being able to read the music he could hear the tune in his head.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention? Some of you may have noticed our new man at the piano. Please welcome Mr Danny Hill, a man of many talents. Mr Christopher Marlowe will be playing the piano here again tomorrow. I’m now going to sing for you a song he wrote especially for the inestimable Miss Brett Kentrich who is graciously among us tonight. Please give a hand to Miss Kentrich. Fact is, Christopher has written a whole raft of songs. He has also written the book for the musical he calls Happy Times… Take it away, Danny. Ladies and gentlemen, for tonight only on the piano, Mr Danny Hill.”

  * * *

  At first, Brett was livid. Harry was looking at her with a quizzical smile. Barnaby had gone off to another table, leaving her with a virtual stranger. Now the man with two names was playing a trick on her.

  “Now I understand the change of persona. What are you up to Christopher, or is it now Barrington?”

  “I had nothing to do with this.” Christopher was white as a sheet.

  “Then who wrote this song?” Brett was whispering nastily.

  “I did.”

  “Why did you write it for me?”

  “Only in my imagination, Miss Kentrich. You wouldn’t even look at me, remember?”

  “Is there a whole score?”

  “It’s not finished. I’m so sorry. You can get up and go. I will walk you out and find a taxi. This is the worst moment of my life.”

  Danny was first playing the tune through on the piano. Halfway through the clarinet began to speak. The crooner began to sing the love song. Everything went quiet in the supper club.

  Christopher was sure the quiet was embarrassment and went red in the face. He half got up from his chair and was pulled back by Brett. Harry Brigandshaw had stopped talking to his wife and was listening intently to the song. Couples began to move on to the dance floor, swaying on the spot to the soft haunting music. Christopher waited for it all to be over so he could make his escape and never show his face back at Clara’s. Christopher had never heard the crooner sing with so much concentration, which was strange. The man was a hack. The trombone player seemed to have sobered up. Christopher caught Clara looking at him. She was smiling. He was too tense to smile back.

  At the end, Harry Brigandshaw led the applause. Everyone stood up except Brett and Christopher until Christopher remembered he was Barrie Madgwick for the night. Sheepishly, he got up with the rest of them and clapped his own music. Harry Brigandshaw, he thought, was smiling like a lunatic. His wife had a queer look on her face as if she had just found something she wanted. The moment was quickly over. Danny was playing Brett’s main song from The Golden Moth, a song familiar to everyone in the room.

  “If it wasn’t a setup, how come you had evening dress ready to put on?” Brett was still furious.

  “Being the managing director in training at Madgwick and Madgwick, clients ask me to dine with them. They don’t want to complete long contracts with my Uncle Wallace who is a drunk and a fool in most people’s opinion. This is not the first time Danny played piano. Despite what Harvey Lyttleton had to say, I play the first two sets as Christopher Marlowe and duck out to dinner as Barrington Madgwick. I have never accepted the invitation to the shows except once when the show the clients were seeing was The Golden Moth. I’ve watched The Golden Moth six times from the gods as Christopher Marlowe when I lived off the earnings of a piano player. I also have a suit in Clara’s office to change into if the evening goes on too long. I play my songs so Danny can write them down on sheet music. We have argued into the mornings over the songs. Then I go straight to the office in the City instead of going home to my attic to change.”

  “You are a romantic fool.”

  “What Danny Hill says. But I like it.”

  “Now I’m going home.”

  “Don’t you want to sing my songs?”

  “What on earth for?”

  Harry Brigandshaw had been listening to every word. “Because if the rest of them are as good as the first one,” said Harry, “I will back Happy Times. The same way I gave Oscar Fleming money to put on The Golden Moth. My wife says that song was a hit. It’s her idea for me to back another show for you, Brett.”

  “Really?”

  “I just love that song,” said Tina. “Harry says we’ll have to stay in London for a while to tie the ends up.”

  “You want the flat back?”

  “I don’t think Harry would do that,” said Tina sweetly. “We’ll buy ourselves a townhouse. Somewhere in the West End. Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Harry? We can’t stay in a hotel, week after week. Think of little Anthony. Can you read music, Miss Kentrich?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why not sing Christopher’s song tonight and bring the house down. I have a friend at the Tatler. Barry Jones will be over here in a taxi before we finish supper. You’ll have supper with us? Just the five of us. Barnaby is off making money at another table. A new song from the new show and so romantic. The Tatler will gobble it up.”

  Brett relaxed, smiling at Tina. Of course, she thought inwardly excited, the girl doesn’t want to live in Africa. London was more exciting. Brett began to smile… If Tina stayed in London, so would Harry. She put out her hand and covered Tina’s lightly where it was resting on the white damask tablecloth.

  “Go and give Barry Jones a ring, Tina. We’ll wait for him. I’d have oysters tonight if there was an R in the month. But it’s June. I’ll begin with caviar. I’m starving. Merlin, you were so clever to bring Harry to Clara’s. Before the food comes, I’ll sit in Clara’s office and read through the music. You won’t mind me being away from the table for a while?”

  “It’s really a duet,” said Christopher still not believing his luck.

  “Then I can sing with Harvey Lyttleton. He has a lovely voice. Not even bad-looking.” She was looking at the band and slowly running her tongue above the upper lip, careful not to fudge her lipstick.

  Brett Kentrich was once again in a good mood. Behind Tina’s back, she gave Harry a sweet smile. The poor man had no idea what was really going on.

  * * *

  Tina left the four of them alone to make her phone call. She had used Barry Jones before, to launch herself into London society when she came back to England from Johannesburg on the back of her brother’s money. Albert Pringle had first made money from a whorehouse, before legitimising himself by buying a gold mine. The gold mine had launched Serendipity Mining and Explosive Company with shares in the company quoted on the Johannesburg, London and New York Stock Exchanges. Albert Pringle was what the newspapers liked to call a Rand Baron.

  Barry Jones was pleased to hear from her, even said he was dressed in his pyjamas. Tina explained what she wanted Barry to hear at Clara’s.

  “I’ll be right over, darling.”

  “You’ll owe me one for this.”

  “I probably will.”

  * * *

  Merlin, having no idea what was really going on, walked across and asked Millie Scott to dance. Barrie Madgwick and Harry were in a huddle. Tina had gone off to phone her friend at the Tatler magazine. Brett had disappeared with Clara. He felt spare. Left out. Which he thought unfair seeing he was paying for the evening. His only consolation was Barnaby keeping away from the table.

  While Merlin danced with Millie Scott and told her what was going to happen for something better to say, he was thinking of Esther and Genevieve. Yesterday’s lunch with his real family had been perfect. His daughter had brought him his comfortable slippers. Esther had listened open-mouthed to everything
he had to say. Before he left the little flat in Chelsea, he had agreed to give them all the little things they had asked for. Even Esther’s friend Joan from Lambeth, who had stayed for half an hour, had not changed his mood. Genevieve had said she liked Aunty Joan and that was good enough for Merlin.

  “If your friend from Africa who was married to your sister is going to put up the money for this new musical, could you ask him to ask Oscar Fleming to find me a part? I’m sick of kicking my legs up in the chorus line. So is my friend Blanche. Just for old times’ sake, like. We’d some good times you and I back then when the war started.”

  “Of course I will, Millie. What are friends for?”

  “You are my friend? Now that is nice.”

  To Merlin’s acute embarrassment, the silly girl began to cry.

  4

  January 1925 – Dinner at Berkeley Square

  There was one thing Ralph Madgwick finally understood. He could not do without money. By the time he reached the entrance to the offices of Madgwick and Madgwick in Billiter Street down from Cannon Street tube station in the City of London, he was flat broke.

  Ralph and Keppel Howland had worked their passages by stoking the boilers in the bowels of the ship all the way from Durban to England, their only pay, their food and passage home. They had both been too proud to cable their families for money. Too proud to admit failure. They looked like what they were; stokers off a tramp steamer from one of the ports of England. They were both shivering in the freezing cold. Neither had eaten for two days. They were unwashed and probably smelled though neither could smell their own dirt.

  With all the reading in the world, finding diamonds somewhere in the African bush was but a dream. Sixteen months after leaving Elephant Walk, expecting to make a quick fortune and a triumphant return to their families in England, they had shot an old elephant with tusks so large the poor beast was pulling them along the ground through the dry bush. The rains had yet to break. The bush tinder dry. The nearest waterhole miles away. Ralph shot his last elephant with sadness and compassion. He rather thought they both felt the same. At the end of their tethers. Nowhere else to go.