To the Manor Born

by Peter Rimmer

“And my children, Barnaby. What about Anthony and Beth? Who gets the children? Oh, no. I’m going back to Africa. This will never happen again, Barnaby St Clair.”

  “You’d better get the green sap of spring grass off the back of your dress. Dear oh dear. Why do we fight the inevitable? Like the Germans. They are going to do it again. All this National Socialism. Another word for pride. They want their pride back that was taken at Versailles by the French. Lloyd George said in 1919, the terms of surrender at Versailles demanded by the French were so severe we will have to fight the war again in twenty years’ time at three times the cost. Another world war in 1939!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s my point, Tina. We come from different worlds. Very different worlds. This, right here, it’s the only world we understand together… When are you going back to London?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll have to stick around a few days I suppose. What a bore.”

  “Why did you come down?” asked Tina knowing perfectly well.

  “To do this, Tina. Wasn’t it fun?”

  “Do you hate me so much for marrying Harry?”

  “Not any more… Oh, and you won’t go back to Africa. Not after this. Far too good wasn’t it?” Tina had stopped shivering. She wanted to go. She could not move. Her dress was still hitched up. The juices in her loins started flooding all over again.

  “Come here, my Tina. I want you again… And again.”

  She had no power to stop him. The desire for satiation was too strong. Forgetting the consequences, Tina Brigandshaw lay back on the wet new grass, accepting him.

  When it was all over, she dressed carefully and left the wood. They had not spoken again. At the railway cottage, her mother was in the kitchen getting supper ready. Tina went upstairs and changed before going down to her mother. Her father had yet to come home from work.

  “Did you enjoy your walk?”

  “Lovely. When the rain stopped, the wind went down and the sun came out. Almost spring. That smells lovely. I’m so happy.”

  “You changed your dress.”

  “From the trees. It was wet from the long grass.”

  “You didn’t take your raincoat?”

  “Of course… Where are the children?”

  “Sleeping in the boys’ bedroom. I put them down an hour ago.”

  * * *

  Robert had seen his brother go for a walk when the rain had stopped. Robert had been standing in his bedroom window, his mind wandering. At first, he could not make out who it was. Barnaby appeared round the corner of the house on the path that led to the river and that went all the way to Corfe Castle.

  Saddened by his younger brother not coming up to say hello, he was about to call out when he saw there was something furtive about the way Barnaby looked around before walking away from the Manor. As if he did not wish to be seen. Strapping on his artificial foot, Robert went downstairs to find out what was going on. He found his mother in the drawing room from where she could see a part of the path that led down to the small river. She was white as a sheet, staring out of the long sash window. All the windows in the drawing room went from waist-high to almost the ceiling. There were pulley ropes to help pull them up.

  “Was that Barnaby I saw walking down to the river? What’s brought him home all of a sudden? Nobody told me he was here.”

  “It’s her. He’s gone to see her.”

  “I’m sorry, mater. Don’t understand.” Robert himself had gone white as a sheet understanding all too well.

  “Harry’s new wife. Mrs P’s daughter. I’ve just had a message from Mrs P and was looking for Barnaby but he has gone. The moment the rain stopped. The two of them must have an arrangement… Poor Harry. If that madman Braithwaite had not killed Lucinda this would not be happening… That girl has some terrible power over Barnaby.”

  “You think it’s her fault? I doubt it. Barnaby never does anything he doesn’t want to do. If I was writing it into a book, I’d say Barnaby was jealous of Harry… You do know, mother…? Tina and Barnaby started a long time ago.”

  “We’re too late.”

  “We have all been too late for a very long time.”

  “But he is such a nice kind boy.”

  “That’s what he wants us to believe. We all judge other people by the way we behave ourselves. There are good and bad people.”

  “Are you saying your brother is bad, Robert? I won’t have that.”

  “I’m sorry. I said too much. I saw Tina at the railway station. I don’t think she knew about Barnaby coming down. She had her children. I’ll run after Barnaby and stop him from doing anything silly.”

  “You would not get within half a mile.” Robert knew his mother was thinking of his missing foot.

  “I suppose not… Then we must hope my brother knows how to behave himself. Obviously, Mrs P doesn’t think he does or she would not have sent you a message. All we can do is pretend nothing is going to happen. That nothing does happen. Harry is in Africa. Flown out on one of his seaplanes. I didn’t tell you about his wife because I thought it would make you upset having Lucinda’s replacement down the road with Harry’s children.”

  “Don’t tell your father. He thinks the world of Barnaby.”

  “Don’t worry, mother. Barnaby will have to go to the railway cottage. Mrs P won’t let them out of her sight.”

  “What if they arranged it with Harry being in Africa?”

  “She told me Harry was in Africa. Why would she do that if she was up to something with Barnaby? She knows Harry is my friend.”

  “Thank you, Robert, I feel a lot better. How’s the new book going?”

  “They are talking to me. The characters. It’s begun. Written down on the first page is today’s date, the 29th of March 1925.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, there was a knock on Robert’s bedroom door. Everyone knew in the house that when he went to his room to write he was not to be disturbed. An interruption chased his characters out of his head. Often for the rest of the day, the scene he was writing lost forever.

  Cursing he would have to start the first page over again; he went to the locked door and turned the key. The only light in the room was over his writing desk. When he opened the door, a jaunty Barnaby was standing outside. Robert’s brother smelled of crushed grass and damp earth. The light from the lamp on Robert’s desk was turned in a way that shone the light at the doorway. In the annoyance of being disturbed, Robert had knocked up the angle of the lamp. Even someone less attuned to the reality of people’s minds behind their outward façades would have understood. Over the years of writing, Robert’s skills had improved. He most always saw past the face to the truth. The truth now was glaring at him.

  “You really are a scoundrel, Barnaby.”

  “What are you talking about brother? Oh, sorry to disturb the genius.” He was smirking at Robert. A self-satisfied smirk.

  “You know perfectly well. I introduced Harry into this family. To Lucinda and by extension from our family I introduced Harry to Tina.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Tina was on the train with me yesterday. I helped her with the pram. With Harry’s children.”

  “How noble of you. Just what has that got to do with me?”

  “I can smell her now. Her perfume. And your clothes are wet.”

  “It’s raining, Robert. Raining again. Rain makes people wet.”

  “She didn’t know you were here, did she…? Good. At least Tina was not part of your plan… You are jealous of Harry. Of everything Harry has ever done. He is ten times the man you are… Mrs P sent mother a note, telling her to prevent you from seeing Tina. Mrs P had been told of your sudden arrival at the Manor.”

  “You really are a frustrated old bachelor stuck in the middle of nowhere. You are the one who is jealous. Jealous of me… Go back to your scribbling, brother. I came up to say sherry is being served in the drawing room. Mater and
pater. A family reunion. I left you alone as long as possible… Oh, and if you think I would make Tina commit adultery you’re wrong. It is a sin. Harry is also my friend. I went for a walk. If Tina is in Corfe Castle, it is the first I heard of it. The perfume you smell is mother’s if you smell anything that isn’t part of your imagination.”

  “How did you find out Harry had gone to Africa and Tina to Corfe Castle? Someone in London will tell me. How about Merlin? I’ll give him a ring now we have a phone you did not use to warn mother of your generous visit. And, Barnaby, I do know the smell of our own mother’s perfume.”

  “Mind your own business, Robert.”

  “It is my business. Harry is my friend. And yes, I am a frustrated old bachelor. But that has nothing to do with what you have just done. Remember one thing, Barnaby. If you can get away with doing wrong, that no one else may find out, you still have to live with yourself.”

  Barnaby turned his back and walked away, laughing uncontrollably. At the end of the dark corridor, he turned back to his brother still standing in the light of the doorway.

  “You really are a fool, Robert. Living with the thought of Tina, especially Tina with her clothes off is the best part of my life. You would think so too if you ever had the chance. Don’t be such a sanctimonious hypocrite. There is far more to life than being stuck in a room writing stories about imaginary people. Real people have flesh and blood. Like me. Like Tina. We feel. We feel the ecstasy of life when we come together. Something you will never understand however many books you write. You have only one life, Robert. Enjoy it while you still can. Use some of your money from the books. Get out of here. Start living your life. You are my brother. Don’t look at me and my faults. Look in the mirror at your own. We all have them… Now mother and father are expecting us. No more of this conversation downstairs. It’s been going on for all eternity.”

  * * *

  Earlier that day on the Sunday at twelve o’clock midday, one hour ahead of London, Harry Brigandshaw was having the time of his life. The seaplane had flown six feet above the Zambezi River before climbing into the blue sky over the Victoria Falls, the plane drenched in the spray sent up by the falling water cascading over the lip into the boiling water deep in the earth below. Again, Ignatius Bowes-Lyon brought the plane down over the river, the long white wing floats graceful as swans. The heads of the family of hippo had sunk below the brown water to the sanctuary of the riverbed. The landing was clear.

  On the third approach, the floats kissed and bounced the water, kissed again, settling, sending a stream of white spray behind Harry’s eyes level with an elephant browsing the top of a tree on the north shore of the river. The seaplane came slowly round to face upriver, gently pushing against the flow of the river towards the wooden jetty on the south side. Three black men were waiting to secure the plane with ropes. Harry released his seatbelt. He was home.

  Half an hour later, the passengers and crew were standing outside the entrance of the Victoria Falls Hotel.

  “One day we’ll fly it in less than a day,” Harry said to Ignatius. “There’ll be an airport here. Not as big as Croydon Airport but an airport in the heart of Africa. This is not over. Financially the airline has been a disaster for us, but it is just the beginning. We’ve proved it can be done. And remember, A V Roe is working on another flying boat with a hull that can land on water, the wing floats just to steady the plane. Sixty passengers in the same comfort of a train.”

  “It’s disappointing, but I hear you, Harry. When are we flying her back?”

  “Two weeks. The train will take me to Salisbury from here where Tembo will pick me up and take me to the farm. I promised my wife not to be away for long. You can’t have everything in life, Ignatius. Just some of it, some of the time. Did you see that elephant…? Don’t look so sad. You’ll still have a job. We’ll just have to wait for the right aircraft. Pioneers rarely succeed the first time. Any business venture has to make money. This one at the moment doesn’t.”

  6

  December 1925 – Love in the Cold

  Having persuaded Uncle Wallace to pay him a salary far in excess of a lowly clerk’s, Ralph Madgwick had become quite the man about town. There had been a lot of uncle/nephew talk on the merits of being an English country gentleman. Uncle Wallace, glazed with excitement, had given in. It was irrelevant to Uncle Wallace later that bills of lading were still foreign to his nephew months into the training programme. Uncle Wallace had little idea what they were either, which left Postlethwaite without a case for dismissal. Uncle Wallace put it down to jealousy. Both nephews’ salaries were now just short of Postlethwaite’s.

  “Try and make him learn, Postlethwaite.”

  “He’s not interested. Neither is the brother interested in the company. For goodness’ sake, Mr Madgwick. Barrington Madgwick is still living in an attic and playing the piano in a supper club.”

  “Don’t for goodness’ sake me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Look. They own half the business. You make a good salary. How about another thousand a year? Don’t worry me with the details. I want them competent enough to run the business in two years. Not a day later. I’m not getting younger. Old men don’t ride horses. I like riding horses. I like shooting grouse. I like catching salmon. I hate this business. Now, do you understand me, Postlethwaite?”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  Postlethwaite almost slammed the door to the senior partner’s office. There was a fine line between shutting it and slamming it. Uncle Wallace decided to give Mr Postlethwaite the benefit of the doubt.

  There was one thing he was sure about. Neither of his nephews were fools. When they had to answer questions from clients, they would find out what they were talking about. They were both well educated. Their minds were alert.

  Uncle Wallace, still full of hope, had found just the place to fulfil his dreams in the Lake District, Cumbria. That was where he was going to start enjoying his life. Lots of dogs. Lots of horses. Big log fires. Snifters, lots of snifters. Peace. Peace and quiet away from the City, away from Madgwick and Madgwick and the looks of contempt, hidden admittedly by Postlethwaite… The man had a wife of thirty years standing and eleven children…! Uncle Wallace shuddered. Dogs and horses did not talk back. That was what he wanted. A country house full of dumb animals.

  Adding to his annoyance, Rosie Prescott knocked on his door and came in without her knock being answered. She was carrying a sheaf of papers. Uncle Wallace’s left eye began to water and hurt. Before his secretary could say a word, he lifted the balloon glass that was ready on his desk and drained the brandy. Then he smacked his lips and smiled at her through his one good eye. They both waited for the jolt of brandy to take effect. Then he was ready for business.

  “Good morning, Miss Prescott. Make a note to the chief accountant to increase Mr Postlethwaite’s annual salary by one thousand pounds. My younger nephew appears to have learnt nothing in the last six months. You do understand. Confidential, of course. The salary increase. The poor chap has eleven children so he won’t be going anywhere. My word, that is a terrible thought. What on earth would we do without Postlethwaite…? Do I have anyone to see, Miss Prescott?”

  “Sir Jacob Rosenzweig.”

  “What on earth does he want to see me about? He’s our banker. Doesn’t he want to see the chief accountant? I know nothing about figures… Oh my God, it’s young Ralph again. Last month I sent him as my proxy to celebrate the one hundred and fiftieth year of the founding of Rosenzweig’s in Berlin. He must have misbehaved. I’m going to have to talk to young Ralph.”

  “Mr Barrington Madgwick has again given me his letter of resignation. Happy Times is now running full steam ahead at the Aldwych after a shaky start. Word of mouth… I rather think he does not need his job at Madgwick and Madgwick.”

  “Don’t look so happy, Miss Prescott.”

  “It’s a wonderful musical. I have seen it three times.”

  “I know. I sneaked in myself twi
ce. Don’t tell Barrie or whatever he calls himself… How can a man have two names?”

  “From the letter, he only wants one. Christopher Marlowe. He is working on a new musical.”

  The estate in Cumbria, the dogs and horses, all were fading in front of his eyes. Wallace cursed his luck.

  “Why can’t a man do in life what he wants to do, Miss Prescott?”

  “That’s what he is going to do.”

  “Not nephew Barrington. Myself. No one ever thinks of me.”

  Miss Prescott left the papers on the antique Jacobean desk, half filled the empty balloon glass with brandy and left the senior partner’s office, gently closing the door behind her.

  “Poor old bugger,” she said to herself outside.

  Maxwell, the lift operator, looked across at her. The door to the lift cage was opening. Out of the cage, a tall, thin man was stepping into the executive suite. The man was in his late fifties with a large hooked nose like the beak of a predatory hawk. Both of his eyes were watery. He carried a cane with a beautifully worked silver top. When he smiled at her, Miss Prescott liked the man. She looked at the clock above the lift entrance. It was ten o’clock precisely.

  “I’ll tell Mr Madgwick you are here, Mr Rosenzweig.”

  This time Rosie Prescott knocked three times in quick succession on the old panelled door. When she opened the door to admit the senior partner of the London branch of Rosenzweig’s, the balloon glass was nowhere to be seen. She had given Uncle Wallace just enough time to drink the contents and hide the glass.

  Uncle Wallace stepped around his desk, his most affable self. Socialising was what he was best at.

  “What a pleasure, sir. What a pleasure.” His right hand was out; the other ready to cover the old man’s shoulder to guide him to the comfortable couch in front of the coffee table where they could talk man to man. Uncle Wallace was right. The problem as he had suspected was nephew Ralph.