by Peter Rimmer
She knew where she was immediately. It was the smell of the room. Her children had been put to bed in the boys’ room where her mother had slept the night.
“You need a good night’s sleep, Tina. I’ll look after them.” Her mother had been smiling. What was a blessing for her mother was a chore for Tina. Tina first thought of Barnaby when she woke. It was the evocative smell in the room. Then she remembered her children. There was something wrong with her she told herself. A lousy mother. Always but always thinking of herself, Tina thought most people thought of themselves more than others. The ones who said they didn’t were liars. Sad but true. Part of life.
Tina got up from the bottom bunk bed and went to the window. The curtains she tried to draw stuck on the uneven wooden pole as they always did. Outside the vegetable garden looked bleak from the winter. None of the fruit trees had any leaves. From the boys’ room, Tina heard Beth begin to cry. The sound grated on her nerves. Then the crying stopped. Tina opened her bedroom window. A thrush was calling in the morning cold. Looking out from her first home, Tina wondered where she belonged. The contrast of the Berkeley Square house and the railway cottage was extreme. There was something nice about the railway cottage now the baby had stopped crying. The thrush had a good voice. Tina asked herself why songbirds never made a harsh sound. There was no other sound than the bird. Her other home in Africa could have been on the moon. Only then did she think of Harry, somewhere over Africa, flying back to the farm he called home.
“I don’t have a home. Not a real home.” The thrush stopped calling at the sound of her voice. “Oh, Barnaby, why did we love each other so much as children?”
The sound of small running feet drowned out her own voice.
“Mummy, mummy! Come see bunny rabbit grandda found for me.”
The boy spoke well for so young a child. Her day had begun. Putting on a brave smile, Tina opened her childhood bedroom door to her son. The rabbit was only a few weeks old. Too small for her father to kill and skin. The long ears were laid back on the grey fur. Anthony was gently stroking the long ears with his small hand, holding the rabbit in the crook of his other arm. The small wild animal looked at Tina with a terrible fear in its eyes. The nose was twitching. Tina wondered how many brothers and sisters the rabbit had left in the burrow. Wondered whether the mother had missed this one small pulse of life.
“He’s very beautiful,” she said to Anthony. “Be gentle with him. After our breakfast, we will take him back to his mother. Back to the burrow.”
“Where is this worm?”
“Burrow. I’ll show you.” Then she picked up her son still clutching the rabbit and walked with him down the rickety wooden stairs to her mother’s kitchen and the morning smell of frying bacon.
Beth was in the pram, next to the cooking stove. Her father had gone to work. Her mother looked happy doing what she liked to do best. Cooking for her family.
“Sleep well, Tina?”
“Like a log. I can’t tell you how nice it is to be home.”
Only when Tina sat down at the scrubbed white kitchen table made from elm, with Anthony and the rabbit on her knee, did she realise what she had said: the railway cottage was the only real home she had ever had.
“Do you mind if I stay a few days?”
“Stay as long as you like… When is Harry coming back from Africa?”
“I don’t know… He wants me to take the children back to Elephant Walk.”
“Then you must take the next boat.”
“But I don’t want to live in Africa.”
“That has nothing to do with it. You and your children live where your husband wants to live. Anyway, you’ll be better in Rhodesia. Harry told me there isn’t a class problem among whites… You’ve married above yourself, Tina. Despite our Albert employing Miss Pinforth to teach you to speak proper. They’ll never accept a working-class girl in them posh places in London… You’re better off in Africa.”
“I hate the place. I want to live in England.”
“Then you shouldn’t have married Harry… Or that Barnaby St Clair.”
“What’s this got to do with Barnaby?”
“Everything, I should think… Before you eat your breakfast feed the baby. I’m surprised she didn’t wake for her feed in the night.”
“Feed her here?”
“Why not? I fed you here and the others.”
“What if someone comes?”
“There’s nothing nicer than a mum feeding her baby. Beautiful it is… You do have some milk?”
“Plenty… It’s leaking out. My blouse is wet already.”
“Then feed Beth. It’s her milk… Here, give me Anthony and the rabbit.”
* * *
Barnaby had heard from Merlin that Tina had gone down to Dorset to visit her parents. He knew Harry was on his long flight out to Africa. The stock market was still going up. Barnaby had borrowed more money from Cox and King’s bank against the increased value of his shares to buy more shares. He had also mortgaged the new shares to the hilt. Barnaby felt pleased with himself. His share portfolio was as long as his arm.
He had not visited his parents for over a year. The snub of Robert being in London to see his publisher, and not staying with either of his brothers had been noticed by everybody. Robert was annoyed with them, it seemed. Merlin had not gone down to Dorset for months, obsessed with his bastard daughter who could twist her father round her little finger. Always aware of appearances, the opportunity to visit his parents as a dutiful son and be alone with Tina was too good to be missed.
* * *
While Tina was feeding Beth next to the stove sitting on an old wooden chair watched by her mother, Barnaby was standing at Waterloo station waiting for the morning train to take him down south. He would have to change trains in Guildford but it was still better than taking the car. Instead of walking the seven miles to Purbeck Manor direct he would take a slight detour and visit Mrs P. Anyway, old Pringle would be at the station in Corfe Castle. Barnaby had his excuse. There was no reason why the parents should suspect he knew Tina had gone down to Dorset. Merlin had said her decision was taken on the spur of the moment. Lucky for him Merlin had gone round the previous morning to Berkeley Square to find Tina about to go to the station. Barnaby suspected Merlin was still sweet on Tina. Everyone was. Barnaby liked his women to be wanted by everyone. It kept up his interest, having something the others wanted. Between the bastard child and Tina in London, Barnaby considered his brother a mess. A good example of never believing a man for what he looked like. For all his appearances as a stuffed shirt, his brother preferred common girls. Showgirls like Millie Scott with the long legs.
“Poor old Merlin,” Barnaby said to himself as he got on the train. “No wonder he never got married.”
The thought of putting horns on Harry Brigandshaw by sleeping with his wife gave Barnaby a surge of pending sexual pleasure. It was barely the start of spring but they would find a place in the woods despite the weather. The more dangerous the better. Lucky he had gone round to see a disconsolate Merlin in his flat soon after Merlin had come back from visiting Berkeley Square. What luck. It was all luck. Like betting on the stock market except it always went up. C E Porter was sure the bull market was going on forever. The war was over. There was peace. Everyone who was anyone was making money. Labour was cheap with so many men back from the war still looking for jobs.
“Money for old rope,” he said to the empty first-class carriage. Barnaby took out The Telegraph from his briefcase, turned to the financial pages and began to read. After The Telegraph he would read The Economist. After The Economist, The Wall Street Journal… Another good reason, other than Tina Brigandshaw, not to drive the car however much he enjoyed driving. Barnaby had just bought himself a Bentley 3 Litre that went like the wind.
“Good,” he said again to himself. All but four of his shares had gone up. The price-earnings ratio was ridiculous but who cared. It was what people paid for the share that counted. Every day
he was making himself another fortune. “Money for old rope.” The idea of working for a living had never once crossed his mind. Even in the army, he had fiddled the books in the officers’ mess when he was put in charge of the accounts. They had found out and demobbed him early in Cairo at the end of the war. Nothing more. The army did not like a scandal. Barnaby was of the opinion he could get away with murder if he ever wanted… And Harry was a long way away. With luck, Harry would not come back to England. He and Tina would have the best of both worlds. She a rich marriage and a fine house. He his mistress to visit for as long as he liked when he liked without one iota of responsibility.
When the train arrived in the afternoon at Corfe Castle station, it was raining. Even the best of plans Barnaby admitted had sometimes to be changed. Old Pringle rang for the taxi. Amazing, he thought, the railway station had a telephone! Old Pringle seemed pleased to see him. Strangely, the old man mentioned nothing of Tina’s visit to her parents. Showed him the snowdrops in the rain. The lone daffodil. Despite the discomfort, Barnaby had walked down the platform in the rain, his train had gone on to Swanage. He hoped old Pringle would mention his daughter. Make a visit to the cottage less unexpected.
“How’s Mrs P?”
The old man was pointing at the lone daffodil bravely blooming in the rain, the soft yellow colour washed with rainwater. Barnaby had his umbrella up. Old Pringle was letting the rain run off the peak of his railway cap. Pringle was wearing an oilskin over his uniform. The type they had worn in the trenches during the war.
“Everything all right at home?”
The old man ignored him again. They walked back to the waiting room. Barnaby stood in front of the fire. Pringle went off into the ticket booth. When the taxi finally arrived, Pringle had gone. Barnaby thought there had to be a back door to the ticket booth.
“She’s there,” said Barnaby inside the taxi to what he thought was himself.
“Who’s there, sir?”
“Tina Pringle.”
“Mrs Brigandshaw now. Married some rich man in Africa. Two young kids. Drove her yesterday. Pram near fell off the back of the car.”
“Are my mother and father at the Manor house?”
“And Mr Robert.”
The suitcase packed by his man Edward was in the back seat next to him. His briefcase was on his knees, his hands resting comfortably on it.
“How long’s she staying?” he said innocently.
“You old friends?”
“Her husband is a friend of mine. He was married to my sister Lucinda before she was killed. He met the new Mrs Brigandshaw in Africa. Coincidence, really. Her brother Albert lives in Africa.”
The driver looked relieved. He was looking back at Barnaby through the rear-view mirror. Barnaby smiled at him, pleased with his dissimulation. He had put the driver right off the scent.
“She didn’t say,” said the taxi driver.
The rest of the journey to Purbeck Manor went in silence. They took the high road. Down below Barnaby could see the small river. He would take a walk back down the river when the rain stopped.
The surprise and pleasure on his mother’s face when she saw him standing in the hall made Barnaby feel guilty. Old Warren had opened the side door in the big Gothic front door to let him in. The sound of the knocker had echoed through the old house. Old Warren was bent. His hands twisted from arthritis.
“No cows to milk?” Barnaby had said as a question. Warren was his father’s cowman.
“Can’t no more.”
Then Barnaby’s mother was coming down the spiral stairs to find out who had hit the knocker on the old oak door with such force.
“Barnaby! What a lovely surprise. Robert and your father will be so pleased. Come on in away from the rain. The house is so cold in winter.”
“I have tried many times to come down,” lied Barnaby.
“You must be so busy. Merlin should come down more often. He doesn’t have a job or a wife. Come into your father’s study. We keep a fire going all the time in there these days. It’s cosy. The room is small. Your father is down with his pigs. He won the second prize for Hector the fourth at the county fair. Drove himself and the pig all the way to Swanage.”
“Was the pig in the car with him?”
“Oh, no. They made a big box on bicycle wheels and towed the pig behind the car. Made quite a sensation when he arrived. I’ll ask cook to make some tea. Are you hungry?”
* * *
The word had reached Mrs Mason five minutes before she was asked to bring tea to the study. She and old Warren had been friends all their lives.
“What’s he doing here?” asked old Warren for something better to say.
“Haven’t you heard, Mr Warren?” After all the years together at the Manor, they still called each other Mrs Mason and Mr Warren. Old Warren looked perplexed. ‘He understands cows better than people,’ thought Mrs Mason. To Mrs Mason, Barnaby St Clair arriving at the Manor out of the blue was definitely not one of life’s little mysteries.
“She’s here,” she said. There was so little to talk about in the servants’ quarters at the Manor. She was going to draw out the scandal as long as she could. “Have a cup of tea?”
“I don’t mind if I do.”
“She’s married now, you know. Two little ones. The taxi man told the postman who told little Mavis who told me. Pram near fell off back of car.”
Old Warren knew the game. It was warm in the maid’s sitting room next to the kitchen. There was an old leather armchair next to the coal fire. The fire was glowing in the half dark. The room was below the one high, long window that was level with the ground outside. He warmed his hands, waiting for Mrs Mason who had gone off to make the tea. With luck, he could make the conversation and the tea last half an hour, and maybe she would bring him some of her plum cake with the walnuts on top. Then he heard little Mavis in the kitchen next door asking Mrs Mason to make tea for Lady St Clair. The door was still half-open. Mavis wanted scones for Mr Barnaby. Warren smiled to himself as he settled back in the old leather armchair. It was getting better. The scones would need warming up in the oven and that would take time.
Only Mrs Mason could ask him into the sitting room. He was an outside man. With luck, they would forget him. The idea of later being brought hot scones with butter and strawberry jam made his mouth water. He had no idea what Mrs Mason was talking about. It was the last thing that mattered on his mind. He had forgotten if or why Lord St Clair had sent him up to the house. Often when he went up to the house and came back again to the pigs or the cows, neither of them could remember why he had gone up to the house in the first place. Both he and Lord St Clair were quietly losing their minds. To old Warren, it was one of the pleasures of old age. He could remember things that had happened far back in his life. It was what he had just done that he often forgot. Like whether he had left Lord St Clair at the pigpens or the cowsheds. Then he slowly remembered. He had been teaching a young lad from the village to milk the cows. The boy had been hurting Daisy. Daisy had kicked over the tin bucket twice. He had gone up to the house to get some ointment to put on the cow’s teats. The boy would have stopped milking the moment he left the shed. Daisy had not been so full of milk to make her uncomfortable.
* * *
When Mrs Mason brought him tea and scones, old Warren was fast asleep in front of the fire. She smiled at him and sat in the high back chair on the other side. Whatever he had come up for, he had obviously forgotten. Little Mavis who was not little any more had gone off to dust the dining room just in case the room was going to be used. Barnaby was Lady St Clair’s favourite. He had the charm to stop people seeing through him. Mrs Mason had known otherwise from when he was a small boy. There was always a bad one in a litter. Sometimes the bad ones were difficult to see. To Mrs Mason, those were the most destructive. Anyway, she told herself, it was none of her business to interfere. When she looked again at old Warren he was smiling at her, eating one of the scones. She decided not to tell old Wa
rren any more. It would do no good.
* * *
Afterwards, in the thick woods, not far from the railway cottage, they said it had had to be telepathy to meet as they did on the path by the river, drawn by a force to each other beyond their known sensors. They had rutted like two animals caring for nothing but their own satisfaction. When it was over Tina felt utterly miserable. From blind ecstasy to misery in ten minutes. She began to cry.
“Don’t cry now,” said Barnaby. “It’s too late… You were always mine. Always. You can’t stop yourself any more than I. The power of nature. Wipe your eyes and pull down your dress in case someone comes. Better still, off you go. No good been seen together.”
“You’re a rotter.”
“Look who’s calling the kettle black. You are the one who is married with two children.”
Tina had slapped him hard across the face. It made Barnaby grin at her. The ground was wet from the earlier rain. Her mother would see her wet dress. Her mother would know the moment she found out Barnaby was at the Manor. Her mother would find out. It was the one social pleasure for the servants to tell tales about people they worked for.
“Don’t fight it, Tina. We’ll be better off in London. Why did you walk out alone? Our minds must have told each other. We are part of each other, part of the same person you and I. We always have been.”
“Then why didn’t you marry me?”
“You know perfectly well why I could never marry you, my Tina. I am the son of a lord. You are common.”
“Does it matter?” Tina’s teeth were chattering from cold and fear.
“How naïve can you be? Never marry out of your station. People don’t like it. My family would look down their noses. Yours would think you had got above yourself. You’ll see with Harry. Well, it won’t matter if you become my mistress. He’ll throw you out of his life with a good allowance.”