by Peter Rimmer
“Thank you, Jane,” he said in banter. “I’m sure you’ll be a great help.”
“You’re welcome.”
Secretly Gert smiled. He was only a prude when it came to married women and especially Mrs Tina Brigandshaw. Showgirls he liked. All of them. One of the reasons he tried to dispute with himself as to why he joined the theatre in the first place.
* * *
When Ralph Madgwick followed the rest of the guests into the withdrawing room after the best dinner he could remember eating, he was slightly drunk. Most of the guests finished half the glasses of wine. New wine glasses were filled to the top with a different wine for each course of the meal. Having been deprived of anything so good for so long, Ralph had finished each glass. Even drinking the sweet muscatel that had been served with the pudding, a trifle rich in fruit and sherry. Smiling to himself and anyone else, Ralph knew he had consumed over a bottle worth of good wine… A footman put a balloon glass of brandy in his hand while saying if he wished to smoke a cigar, he should join the men in the smoking room on the other side of the hall. Foregoing the pleasure of cigar smoke for the more important company of a bevvy of showgirls, he headed into the withdrawing room where his brother was seated at the grand piano, the top of which was up and ready to play. Like his friend Keppel Howland, he had not had a woman for a long time. His face was itching from its first shave in over a year, something he was happy with. There was a price, Ralph knew, for everything. The man he had looked like in his Uncle Wallace’s office would have stood not a chance with even one of the ladies in the room. Like Keppel, he concluded the girls thought him rich by the fact of being at the dinner. Girls liked rich, young men. He had always known that. The trouble for Ralph as he looked around the drawing room was which one to pick. They were all pretty. Getting prettier. Foolishly, he could not make up his mind and flitted from one to another, like a reformed drunk in a bar who had just gone off the rails and was testing all the bottles. Slugging down a shot of the brandy he was meant to sniff, Ralph made his way around the flower-decked room until he came face-to-face with Tina Brigandshaw where he stopped.
“You look wonderful,” he said.
“Thank you, Ralph,” said Tina before moving across to the piano where her adversary was about to sing.
Only when Brett Kentrich had finished singing her third song, Ralph Madgwick realised how he could have any woman he wanted in the room. He was on his third large liqueur brandy and was happily drunk, swaying gently on his feet and grinning at everybody. All he had to do was accept Uncle Wallace’s offer. Learn the business. Go to the office in Billiter Street every day in a suit.
His friend Keppel Howland had him firmly by the elbow and was moving him through the room to the double doors that opened on to the hall and the way out. His friend’s grip was like a vice.
Within two minutes, Ralph and Keppel were in a taxi heading for the attic off Shaftesbury Avenue.
“Where’d you get the money for the taxi, old chap?” Ralph slurred.
“Your brother.”
“Good old Barrie or whatever he wants to call himself… Did you see all those women?”
“I did.”
“Why didn’t you bring some with us?”
“They don’t like cold attics in winter.”
“Didn’t you light the heater?”
“Out of paraffin in all the rush of dressing ourselves up.”
“It’ll be better than a cold shower.”
The old friends who had been to school together and through the last years of the war began to giggle.
“There’ll be another time,” said Ralph.
“There had better be… Do you know her name was Poppy…? Did you see Gert? I’m afraid that Jane is too long for the box room. She won’t fit in. He’ll just have to move.”
“Wow. Am I drunk? Thanks, Keppel.”
“What friends are for, old boy. At least the Hun isn’t going to throw a whizbang in this trench. We’re safely home… Out of the cab, Ralph. Christopher said he would be another hour. Poor chap’s head over heels in love with Brett.”
“Wasn’t Mrs Brigandshaw looking smashing…? Hey, it’s cold out here!”
5
March 1925 – The Cuckold
The train from London was ten minutes late. Old Pringle, stationmaster, booking clerk, railway porter, looked up the line hopefully. He waited to go home, put on his slippers and sit in front of the log fire. He could smell his wife’s cooking in his mind. Wednesday was baking day: bread, cake, pie. On Sunday, he had shot and skinned a buck rabbit that had hung in the shed until he cut it up before going to work in the dark that morning. Tending the flower beds that stretched on both sides of the waiting room was most of his job until the summer when the trippers came down for their holidays. The white heads of the snowdrops were moving in the wind outside. The east wind was bitter, the only warmth inside the waiting room around the fire.
No one was waiting to get on the train to Swanage. If the train had not been late, he told himself, he would have been walking home by now in his big overcoat that had been his winter companion for twenty years. Irritated by the delay, he went outside to look up the track, pulling the overcoat’s collar up to his ears.
On the knoll stood the ruins of Corfe Castle a mile away, knocked down by Oliver Cromwell. He stood looking at the ruins listening for the train.
“Why do people always knock everything down?” he asked himself.
For the first time, he noticed a daffodil that had fought its way out of the hard soil in the last of his small flower beds.
Old Pringle often looked at the ruins. He knew his history as it had affected the Isle of Purbeck, a jut of land out to the sea, not a real island. The Pringles had been in the Isle of Purbeck since time immemorial… Cromwell had cut off the head of his king before knocking down Corfe Castle. The third Baron St Clair had gone out with his king against the Roundheads. When the monarchy was restored they built Purbeck Manor down the river, seven miles from the castle ruins. The Pringles had known the St Clairs for all those centuries. As servants. Never as equals.
“About time,” he said rubbing his cold hands. He could hear the train. The sound bounced off the ridge of hills that ran down the spine of the Isle of Purbeck.
The hot, yellow crust of the rabbit pie came into his mind and he smiled.
* * *
In the train bringing him home from seeing his English publisher, the Honourable Robert St Clair, Barnaby’s elder brother, had the carriage all to himself. He wanted to scratch his right foot, which was impossible, as it had been blown off when Private Lane was killed in November 1916, changing Robert’s life forever. Why a foot itched that wasn’t there, was for Robert one of life’s mysteries, according to Mrs Mason, the Manor’s old cook.
He was thirty-nine years old. Keeper of the Legend had been reprinted eleven times since the war. Three later books had not been so successful in England. In America, all four had been what his American publisher liked to call ‘bestsellers’. He rather thought the term was more for their advertising. No one ever said how many books had been sold… He had an adequate income anyway even if he rarely left Purbeck Manor. Mostly he stayed alone in his second-floor bedroom with a good fire. In summer, he liked to walk the countryside until the stump of his leg in the artificial limb hurt when the pain became greater than his pleasure. He had many chosen places to stop, sit and think. Robert thought a lot about his life that had been, never his future. He had been out of England twice. Once to fight in France with the East Surrey Regiment as a lieutenant until he lost his foot and the War Office discharged him from the army, no longer of use. That was nine years ago he said to himself as his railway carriage slid into Corfe Castle station.
Robert smiled at the familiar sight of old Pringle in the same old coat. The train was late. The engine upfront puffed to a stop sending sulphur smoke all the way down the three carriages. Robert could hear a door open from another carriage. The heavy door must have swung ba
ck and hit the side of the coach. There was another passenger getting off at Corfe Castle. Robert put down the window and looked for the open door. A woman with a large hat that hid her face was trying to pull a pram out of the compartment. The step was in the way. The pram canted dangerously. There was a baby tucked up in the pram that lurched forward, stopped by the reins that tied the baby to the pram. The pram was the most elaborate Robert had seen in his life. Another child was somehow tucked under the woman’s right arm. The toddler was screaming with fright as it faced down at the gap between the train and the platform. Robert pushed open his door in a hurry and put his hat on his head. Then he stomped up the platform to the rescue. He could not remember when he had last gone to help a woman in distress. Then, with the east wind whipping tears from the corners of his eyes, he remembered. It was Africa, his sister Lucinda, on Elephant Walk. When a snake had chased her out of the cottage, where they stayed with Harry Brigandshaw after he and Harry came down from Oxford in 1907.
The girl had the pram out of the carriage now and on the platform. She had her back to him.
“Can I help you?” he called out. He was still fifty yards away. The stump of his right foot was beginning to hurt.
* * *
The one thing Tina Brigandshaw knew she should not do was to introduce a servant into her mother’s house. She had left both nurses in the Berkeley Square house and bitterly regretted her decision. She had half-dropped Anthony on his head out of the train, catching one leg as he screamed, dangling his head a foot from the edge of the platform. Beth was being held attached to the pram by the harness. Two of her blankets had fallen out of the pram, one down next to the rails where it was going to stay. The blue dress down to her ankles that had looked so good at Waterloo station when Engelbert saw her on to the train, was caught in the front right wheel of the pram and was pulling at her bodice. The wind took her hat clean off her head.
To surprise her mother, who had not seen Beth, she had decided to go down to Dorset on the spur of the moment. In a pique. The day after the opening of Happy Times, Harry had flown from Southampton in the last commercial flight of his seaplanes to visit Elephant Walk.
They were poles apart, she and Harry. She had been a fool to let herself get pregnant the first time by mistake let alone the second by intention. As she struggled to offload her two children from the train, the idea of ten children was the furthest from her mind.
Tina knew she was at screaming point. Then, at last, her father came to his senses and was running down the platform to help. Another passenger off the train was hobbling towards her calling out an offer to help. The man himself was not familiar, only the voice, Robert St Clair, Barnaby’s brother… Tina stamped her foot on the ground as though to free herself from Barnaby, but also her blue dress from the small spokes of the wheel. It was all Barnaby’s fault. If he had only married her in the first place.
* * *
“Is that you, Tina?” asked her father now recognising her without the hat.
“I don’t know who else it is.” Involuntarily, she had gone back into the Dorset brogue, which made her more annoyed.
“Can I help?” said Robert. “Good Lord! It’s Tina Pringle.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s Tina Brigandshaw… Dad. This is your granddaughter, Beth, the reason for this fiasco… What’s wrong with your leg, Robert?”
“Lost my foot in the war.”
“Sorry. I forgot. Why I left both nurses in London is ridiculous. I wanted to impress mum. How she ever brought up eleven children on her own I have no idea… Dad, grab Anthony before he falls down that gap. Quick, for God’s sake. Your damn train’s going off again.”
Robert began to laugh.
“What are you laughing at Robert?”
“I’m sorry, Tina. I just never imagined you like this.”
“Neither did I… Leave that blanket where it is. My husband can afford another one. Now, someone go and phone for a taxi. We can give you a lift to the Manor. The idea of pushing the pram all the way home has gone right out of my head… Can someone get my hat before it blows on to the track?”
* * *
Robert declined the lift. He had his own plans. The idea of his mother coming face-to-face with Lucinda’s replacement and Harry’s two children was not worth the chance. His mother would have behaved perfectly but the sight would have hurt her inside. Losing her eldest son in the war and Lucinda in Africa had made his mother prematurely old. Sometimes the girls visited Purbeck Manor. Not very often. They had their own lives. Other problems to think about. Parents were there, safe at home.
Old Pringle had saved the hat. The family had all driven off in the only taxi in Corfe Castle. Robert had quietly told the man to come back. It was better that way. He had told Tina his mother was meeting the train with the car. Tina had piled the two screaming children inside the taxi. The driver had let down the lid of the boot to make a platform with strong chains holding it in place. Robert had then helped the driver strap the pram into the back of the car.
He watched the car and pram disappear into the village. Then he followed slowly down the road to the Greyhound. It was opening time and Robert needed a drink. Often he drank on his own in the bedroom. A few stiff drinks made him sleep. So he could write well in the morning. A bad night’s sleep was bad for his writing.
He had told the driver where to find him when he came back from the old railway cottage beside the brook. It was a pretty cottage. Comfortable. Robert smiled happily to himself as he thought of Mrs P seeing her new grandchild for the first time. In those big arms, the child would be gurgling happily in no time at all.
As Robert reached the Greyhound and went inside to the warmth, he wondered what it would have been like to have children of his own.
The driver of the taxi found him half an hour later. Robert had managed two drinks in the private bar.
When he reached Purbeck Manor in the dark he did not tell his mother Tina Brigandshaw was visiting her parents at the railway cottage. Or the children. The Manor house was very cold. For some reason, the kitchen stove had gone out. Robert cut doorstops off the bread from the bread bin and made himself a cheese and pickled onion sandwich. He took his supper up to his room. He had laid the fire the previous day before going up to town. Robert put a match to the newspaper. The fire caught quickly. When the flames were high enough, Robert turned off the light and sat down in his big armchair by the fire to warm up. He had put the plate of sandwiches on the small table next to the chair along with the bottle of brandy and the glass. He liked to drink the brandy in a crystal glass with a small amount of water.
Content with his own life, Robert began to think of the new book he had outlined to his publisher. He knew the characters in the book would become his best friends.
It was how it worked. Why he liked writing. Fame and fortune were nothing in comparison to the comfort given by his friends. The friends that would live with him in the small bedroom for two or three years. For as long as it took to finish the book. In winter in front of his fire. In summer with the big window wide open to the scent and sound of the English countryside Robert loved so much.
The old house groaned in the east wind. Somewhere a shutter had come loose. As a child, he thought the Manor house was haunted. Now he enjoyed the thought of the old souls walking the corridors where they had lived as flesh and blood centuries before. It gave him a real connection to his ancestors who had fought so hard to keep what they owned in the family. Frederick’s son would inherit the Manor and the title. Robert’s mother thought of Frederick as her eldest son after Richard had died. There had been something wrong with Richard when he was born. Frederick had died in the war leaving Penelope with Gwen and young Richard. Frederick had named his son after his elder brother who had died at the age of thirty-one. Young Richard had just turned eight years old. His mother had never brought him to Purbeck Manor since Frederick was killed. She cried a lot from the war. If anything happened to young Richard, Merlin would become the eig
hteenth Baron St Clair of Purbeck. It was lucky Gwen was a girl so she could have no pretensions to the title. The eldest male inherited. Then it was his turn without children. How strange would it be if Barnaby then inherited the title? If he had married Tina Pringle? If Anthony had been Barnaby’s son, not Harry Brigandshaw’s…?
Robert put two more logs on the fire and waited for the flames to show him his empty glass and the bottle of brandy. The crystal glass began to glow reflecting the flames in the grate. Robert poured himself a refill. Got up with difficulty and splashed in some water from the water jug he kept on the dressing table. The curtains in the bedroom were drawn tight, moving only slightly with the wind blowing hard on the outside of the windowpanes. Robert could hear a branch of the elm tree tapping on the window… Later, Robert fell fast asleep in the armchair. He had taken off the artificial foot when he first sat down in front of the fire.
When he woke in the night, the fire had gone out. The room was cold. Robert climbed into bed by hopping to it on one leg. He was soon sound asleep with his dreams. So often, he dreamt of faces he had never met and wondered why in the morning.
* * *
Back down the river that some called a stream and some called a brook, Tina Brigandshaw woke with the dawn in the old bedroom she had shared with her sisters. There was one room in the railway cottage for the girls. One for the boys. The three-tiered bunk beds rose right up to the ceiling. They had all been made by her father when her father was a young man. Growing up so closely surrounded by her sisters had given her family a closeness she missed. The older girls looked after the younger girls.
Same with the boys in their room. They were all packed too close together to quarrel. Growing up had been the best time of her life. With Barnaby. Growing up with Barnaby visiting from the Manor nearby every day during the school holidays.