To the Manor Born

by Peter Rimmer

  Excited, Sir Jacob got up from the chair and paced the room. He was right. He knew he was right. If Hannah wanted to stay in London that was her business. Stopping in his tracks at the knock on his door he told whoever it was to come in. When she came through the door he could see Rebecca had been crying. Her eyes were red and listless. Her shoulders were slumped. It must have been snowing outside as there was snow on her overcoat.

  “We’re going to America,” said Sir Jacob, his eyes shining. “America! ISN’T that wonderful?”

  With absolute certainty, Sir Jacob Rosenzweig knew God had answered his prayers. They and all their money were going to America. His family was going to survive another one hundred and fifty years. He was walking faster around the room.

  “Can Ralph Madgwick come to America?”

  “You’d better ask him? I’m told everything is different over there.”

  “What changed your mind, daddy?”

  “A man you’ve never heard of and I hope you never will. He’s written a book called Mein Kampf that is about to be published. In English, My Struggle. I had a preview. He hates us Jews. Berlin is full of fear and famine.”

  “But I love England. I’m English.”

  “You may be English second, Rebecca. As I am. A knight of the realm. But first of all, we are Jews and always will be.”

  Sir Jacob was in such a good mood as he smiled at his daughter he had forgotten his main depositors were still Jewish. That Rosenzweig’s was a Jewish merchant bank, in Berlin, Paris, London or New York.

  * * *

  On the following Monday, the 20 December 1925, Brett Kentrich had agreed to go on to Clara’s after the show. She had agreed soon after being told Tina Brigandshaw had given birth to a second son in an exclusive nursing home in Paddington. Having added it all up on her fingers, Brett was not sure whether to sulk or dance the fandango, one of the Spanish scenes in Happy Times.

  When they all reached Clara’s it was full and they sat at the bar. After her first drink, Brett moved among the tables. She had seen Harry Brigandshaw throwing a party at one of the big tables and wanted to say hello, to see his reaction and calculate from his face whether he too had worked out what had likely gone on back in March. The whole of London society thrived on rumours. Harry was either a fool or putting on a brave face. Brett had been told on good report that back in March Barnaby St Clair had chanced to visit his parents at the same time Tina Brigandshaw was visiting hers. The Manor house and the railway cottage not five miles apart. No one ever said it aloud, the insinuation was far more fun but everyone who knew them and many who did not were aware of the very different family backgrounds. One middle-aged woman, with a face like a horse, sometimes imitated the sound of a steam train just within earshot of Mrs Brigandshaw, but only when Barnaby St Clair was in the room. Barnaby seemed to like the insinuation, smiling at the horsey face with a smirk. With Harry Brigandshaw away in Africa for the whole of March, the two of them had been seen by Brett exchanging far more than glances. Only when Harry came back at the end of his aborted flying venture did the looks between Barnaby and Tina dry up. Tina, along with others by the look of it in Clara’s, thought Barnaby St Clair, had given his one-time brother-in-law a pair of horns and a bastard son to go with them. To add spice to the evening and smirks to the socialites’ faces, Barnaby himself came into Clara’s, large as life and brazenly walked across to congratulate Harry just as Brett arrived at the table.

  “Your usual chirpy self, Barnaby,” said Harry Brigandshaw. “How was the show tonight, Brett? Clara, my dear, can you push in a couple of chairs. We all want to celebrate Frank. Frank Sebastian Brigandshaw after my father who some nasty-minded people have liked to suggest through the years of my life was not married to my mother at the time of my birth.”

  “How is Tina?” asked Brett.

  “Glad to be free of him and into the hands of a nurse. Just came from the nursing home. Mother and son are flourishing. For tuppence, my wife would have got out of bed and come right here. Young Frank was making a lot of noise. Good lungs. Always a good sign. The most successful people in this world, so I am told, make a lot of noise. Champagne. A cigar, Barnaby? Especially a cigar for my brother-in-law. How are your family? Please give them my regards. Merlin! Dear, dear, where’s Merlin on such a night? Clara, my dear, phone the Honourable Merlin St Clair. Bring him over. What a night to celebrate.”

  Brett plonked down next to Harry. Christopher Marlowe was giving her sheep eyes from the bandstand as usual. Barnaby sat down on the other pushed-in chair two seats away from Harry. Under the table, Harry took her hand. For the first time since meeting Harry, she realised he was drunk. Her best hopes were instantly revived. Tina had her baby. Brett had his hand. It was going to be the happiest night of her life if she had any say in the matter. When Harry left the supper club that night Brett helped him into a taxi. Then got in next to him and told the driver where to go. Not to the big house on Berkeley Square. To the small flat in Regent Mews. Where it had all begun. She had won even if Harry was past caring. All her pent-up jealousy at Tina Pringle exploded through the long night. In the morning, she was exhausted, full of life, full of joy. Whatever happened in the future could take care of itself.

  When she went on stage that night, she sang her heart out. They were indeed Happy Times. Without good floorboards, she would have stamped the fandango right through the floor of the stage.

  * * *

  The strangest part of it all for Harry was knowing Frank was part of Lucinda. That this was her way from the grave of giving him back their son who died in her womb when she was shot dead by Mervyn Braithwaite on Salisbury railway station. A lifetime ago that would not go away. Haunting him. Knowing Fishy Braithwaite only killed her to get his own back on Harry for something he had not done. He had been a friend to Sara Wentworth, not her lover. It all just never seemed to stop.

  What to do with Brett Kentrich was the next problem on his conscience. He had used her. Willingly, but used her just the same. Tina was much easier. She was his wife, mother of two of his children if not the third. Would always remain his wife, even should they live separate lives. Barnaby was Barnaby. Selfish. Self-centred. Conceited beyond the normal meaning of the word. Harry doubted if Barnaby had ever thought of anyone else but himself in his entire life. That was Barnaby, Harry repeated to himself for the umpteenth time. A leopard never changed its spots whatever else it appeared to be doing, appeared to be trying to do to allow others into letting it get its own way. Harry even surmised that Barnaby thought he was the injured party. That he, Barnaby, had found Tina Pringle first… On the boat, there had been no doubt in Harry’s mind she was not a virgin. A woman of considerable experience. Like Brett Kentrich. He had recognised the type the first night in his cabin on board the SS Corfe Castle, the ship he had named after the ancient family fiefdom of the St Clairs, his first wife’s family. Likely Frank was made in Corfe Castle, the haunting coming back again to Harry, never stopping. The circle going on.

  He could leave Tina in London with the children and go back to Africa but that was not his way. He always tried to think he faced his problems. Running away had solved none of them in the past. There were five of them to think about, not one, despite what Barnaby would have thought in his shoes… Frank Sebastian. He would learn to love him. Chances were he would be the best of the bunch. Life’s irony.

  The roads were bad and covered in ice but that did not matter. He still had his 770cc BSA motorcycle stored in the company warehouse. Along with his Royal Flying Corps goggles and leather long coat, leather gloves that came up to his elbows, fur boots that kept his feet warm in the air.

  After tinkering for an hour, the engine fired. The tyres he inflated with a hand pump. Dressed for the cold, Harry rode the bike out of London to the north through London into the winter day and the English countryside, the clouds low and grey, ready for snow. With the throttle turned full on the handlebar, Harry roared down the country lanes, shouting at the top of his lungs, dr
iving the stench of London off his skin, out of his mind.

  If he killed himself, he did not really care. There was money enough for all of them.

  * * *

  When they had left Clara’s the previous evening, Christopher Marlowe had watched with a sinking feeling. After Harry and Brett left he played the piano worse than usual; distracted. Rumours had been flying for months about Barnaby and Tina. The same Barnaby St Clair he had met in France during the war. Christopher did not like Barnaby and not only for seducing Mrs Brigandshaw when her husband was in Africa. The man had only one thing on his mind: Barnaby St Clair. The fact of Barnaby releasing Harry to pursue Brett had much to do with his dislike that night and the bad piano playing. Even Harvey Lyttleton the most laconic of singers who rarely spoke a sentence using more than seven words had raised an eyebrow. Danny Hill, the trumpeter and collaborator on Happy Times gave him a sympathetic smile. Christopher thought Danny must have seen Brett leave with Harry. The other guests celebrating the new birth had stayed behind making the exit of the star that much more obvious.

  The next day while Harry was trying to kill himself on the icy lanes north of London, Christopher telephoned a message to Clara asking Danny Hill to stand in for him that night on the piano. He wanted to be alone. The attic now boasted two paraffin heaters and was warm as toast. It was beginning to snow outside, the view of rooftops cold and hard. She was never going to take him seriously if Harry Brigandshaw was back in her life. With Happy Times becoming a word-of-mouth success there had been hope. Fame and fortune had still left him in the attic. The hair was growing again, the wig left in the cupboard next to the one gas ring that still cooked his food. The black beret was more comfortable on his head without the wig. Barrie Madgwick had finally been left behind. There had been no word from Uncle Wallace. There did not have to be. Both knew the only reason he had gone to work at Madgwick and Madgwick was his guilty conscience for taking so much from the family and giving nothing of himself in return. Ralph would be just fine in the job of senior partner now he was taking his training seriously. The idea of giving Ralph his share of the family business made him feel even less guilty for abandoning the family business.

  There were so many girls now. All of them seemed to want a man who had written a successful West End musical. All except the one that mattered. The one he had written the musical for in the first place.

  “Why do we always want what we can’t have?” he asked the closed window as he stared across the bleak and lonely rooftops.

  Then he remembered a task he set himself in the winter months and pulled up the sash window letting in the freezing cold and a flurry of snow. Picking up the box of birdseed from the sideboard, Christopher sprinkled a good layer on the outside sill and quickly closed the window. Within a minute, the pigeons were pecking up the food, ruffling their feathers against the cold. Christopher even thought one of them gave him a wink.

  Suddenly a real idea came to him for the new musical, sending him across the room to his small desk where he began to write. This time Christopher was going to write the libretto first and then, with the help of Danny Hill, the music.

  * * *

  On a park bench on Hampstead Heath not far away from the attic of Shaftesbury Avenue, Rebecca and Ralph were sitting in the snow. Neither of them had spoken a word for ten minutes. It was late on the Tuesday afternoon and the light was going. For both of them, it could have been the final darkness proclaiming the end of the world.

  Rebecca had written to Ralph at his four-roomed flat to meet her on the Heath. Her father had given permission for her to write the letter. The snow was drifting down, muffling the sounds of London leaving them alone in a world together for probably the last time.

  “What would I do in America?” asked Ralph. He was desolate. “I once looked for diamonds in Africa, did I tell you that? Not one. I nearly starved. I knew how to shoot a gun and that’s all.”

  “Then what about us running away to Africa? How would we live in Africa?”

  “I don’t care. I just want to be with you.”

  “Then come to America. Everyone who wants a new life is going to America… Father thinks there’s going to be another war with Germany.”

  “Do you want to go to America?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “Then why can’t we be together here. I’ll be senior partner one day now my brother has pulled out. Rich. I’ll be rich.”

  “But you won’t ever be Jewish. Father will keep his promise. He says if your uncle Wallace can’t make you see sense the trust of the last two generations of Madgwicks and Rosenzweigs will be broken. He will stop doing business with Madgwick’s. Cancel your line of credit that you use to do business with your customers.” She had listened long and hard to her father’s tirade.

  “We are in love. Doesn’t that count?”

  “Not to father. Not to the men who lend money to his bank. It’s not just my father, Ralph. We’re Jews. We’re different. The only thing we’ve ever had to keep us together for thousands of years is our religion. And Jews are not allowed to marry Gentiles.”

  “Then why will it be different in America?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. Your father knows I can’t just up and go. He knows I don’t have any money of my own. He knows to marry you I need my job and the prospect of running the firm… When are you going, Rebecca?”

  “On Friday. From Liverpool.”

  “Oh my God.”

  * * *

  They had sailed on the turn of the tide from the Port of Liverpool heading far out through the Irish Sea. By lunchtime, the MV Glasmerden had passed the Point of Ayr heading towards the Isle of Man. The sea was frozen thirty yards out from the land. Sir Jacob could see in the distance from the upper deck the mountain of Snaefell, the highest ground on the island. They were to pick up more cargo in Glasgow before heading out into the Atlantic, across to the Newfoundland port of St John’s. From St John’s, they would sail south direct for New York where the ship would pick up cargo and sail back to Liverpool past the south side of Ireland. It was the first available ship to cross to the New World with berths. Sir Jacob wanted Rebecca out of England before anything worse happened in her life. Hannah would follow later. Sir Jacob and Rebecca were the only passengers on the cargo ship and would eat with the captain.

  Only out of Glasgow two days later did Sir Jacob realise he was trying to leave the land of his birth for another world.

  He had made sure his daughter was on board in her cabin before going up on deck. Rebecca had cried from the time the ship sailed out of Liverpool. She had eaten all her food in her small cabin, taken down to her by Sir Jacob himself. There were moments when he would have changed his mind were they not on the high seas. He just hoped he had done the right thing and not destroyed another woman’s life as he had done to Hannah’s so many years before. Rebecca was only nineteen. There was the comfort for him in her age. She would get over a young man she barely knew which was what his hurry had been all about. The less they saw of each other the less memory his daughter would have to forget.

  So wrapped up in saving the family name and the family bank from danger, he had never given his own emotions a thought. Until the small ship sailed out into the Atlantic and the British Isles faded far behind. Only then did Sir Jacob realise he was wrong about one thing. He was an Englishman first, a Jew second, not the other way around. The pain of sailing away from what he had known all his life was physical. Making sure which way the wind was coming on to the ship, Sir Jacob Rosenzweig was violently sick over the side, retching and retching until his stomach was empty even of bile and the pain in his sphincter became agony. Even in the sub-zero cold, his face had broken out in a cold sweat. He was going into exile. Running away. The only cold comfort being in his certainty of being right. Rebecca, he realised as he looked back at an empty, angry sea was just an excuse. After reading Mein Kampf, My Struggle, by Adolf Hitler, Sir Jacob knew Europe was once again going up i
n flames. That in the flames, the Jews who stayed behind would burn. That the Nazi Brownshirts of the party would soon do more than spit at the Jews. That Hitler’s planned way to power was making the Germans hate the Jews, blaming the Jews for their plight. Even the poor Jews. What made one man’s struggle any different to others was beyond his understanding.

  Sir Jacob got to thinking, blocking out the physical pain that had racked his body. It had happened so many times before in history and no doubt, he thought staring at the running swell of the sea, it would happen again and again. Attila the Hun had been four feet two inches tall, only feeling himself a man when on top of a horse, taking out his revenge on the world by directing his hordes to rape and pillage.

  Then he smiled thinly, the cold now intense. If he was wrong about Germany, they could go back again. Back to England. Feeling better with himself, he went down the stairway into the ship in search of a hot cup of tea.

  As they were moving out into the North Atlantic, the small cargo ship began to pitch in the long swells. It was the second day of the new year in the year of the Christian Lord one thousand nine hundred and twenty-six.

  7

  June 1926 – Love, or Something Like It

  Ralph Madgwick was on the brink of no return. When he was in the office, it was in body, with his mind elsewhere. Bloodshot eyes. Hands shaking so much he dropped his head to the coffee cup to drink, his right arm locked, refusing to lift the cup to his lips. Rosie Prescott had tried everything over six months and given up. Even the secret letter from Rebecca in New York sent him into a drinking depression. The only difference before Rebecca Rosenzweig and after, was the women. All were whores, amateur or professional. To Rosie, it was as if Ralph wanted to dirty himself as much as possible after the brilliant light from Rebecca had shown him a life worth living.