by Peter Rimmer
* * *
Stella Fitzgerald thought Douglas Hayter was the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life when he turned and smiled at her from his wheelchair on the lawn.
They had all driven down from London in Barnaby St Clair’s Bentley 3 Litre, Stella unaware of the extent her father had employed Cuddles Morton-Sayner to look after her affairs. The top of the car had been down all the way with Barnaby driving fast, fear and exhilaration making them shout above the rush of the wind as they sped through the English country lanes.
The four of them had arrived after breakfast as they were expected. Soon after her first glimpse of Douglas Hayter that burned into her mind, the men had gone off to talk business. Douglas had smiled at Stella only the once, a soft, longing smile full of pain and deep understanding that had also sent a sexual shaft of feeling straight to her groin. He was just beautiful sitting helplessly in his wheelchair with the rug over his knees hiding the lack of his legs. C E Porter had told her how Douglas had lost his legs when he was not much more than a boy. Before the car drove out of built-up London and the rush of the wind stopped conversation.
“He lives all alone with the servants at Riverglade which he treats like a mistress lavishing love and money on the house the way he would have done on a wife.”
“Is the poor man impotent? Many rich men who lose their legs marry and have children.”
“He’s too proud. I don’t think he has ever looked at a woman in his life.”
“Oh, you mean he’s like that?”
“Not Douglas Hayter. Were it not for the war, Douglas would have got his rowing blue at Oxford.”
“What’s a blue, Mr Porter?” Stella was already bored and just making conversation.
“Someone who has rowed in the Oxford and Cambridge boat race. Goes back a very long time. I have no idea where the blue originated except both universities wear blue. Cambridge light blue. Oxford dark blue. That must be it.”
“You did not go to university, Mr Porter?”
“Trinity, Dublin. Despite my English accent, I am Irish.”
“Why you do business with my father?”
“Yes, it is… You’ll like Douglas. Frightfully good chap.”
“With whom you do business?” Everything, wherever she went, seemed to be about money.
“Yes, I do. The three of us. But like an old boy network but it isn’t. We all went to different schools.”
The conversation came to an end when Barnaby picked up speed.
On the back of the Bentley, strapped to a wide metal rack was a large trunk containing the girls’ ballgowns neatly packed on trays so they would not be crushed or creased.
Stella was impressed with Barnaby’s handling of the car even though she thought he drove too fast once they were in the open lanes. He was a good driver, perfectly handling the big motor car with the big bonnet strapped down across the middle with a thick leather belt. Stella had never seen such a leather belt before. The separate large and round headlights rested on the front wings of the car. Barnaby had told her when they drove out of his garage behind his house on Piccadilly that he liked to clean the car himself. In the strong sunlight of the new day, the back of the polished chrome headlights shone back at Stella like two beacons of wealth and power, steady as rocks in front of her as they hurtled through the trees on either side of the lanes.
Only after lunch did Stella find herself alone with Douglas Hayter away from the house, fifty yards from the river.
“Can I push you down to the river, Mr Hayter? The water looks so beautiful.”
“I can push myself, thank you, Miss Fitzgerald. I still have my arms. I hang from a bar for fifty pull-ups every morning… Do you know you are the first American girl I ever met? Come on. I’ll race you to the water but you are going to have to run… Mind the daffodils!”
* * *
Watching from the house through the bay window of the sitting room, Barnaby found himself mildly jealous, not that Hayter could do anything to spoil his weekend poor chap. He could feel as much as hear Stella’s shouts of glee as she picked up her skirts and chased after the wheelchair that was going at an alarming speed directly at the river. Next to him, C E Porter took a quick look at the French windows that were open on to the wide veranda with intermittent steps down on to the manicured lawns. At the last moment like a rider galloping a horse, Douglas Hayter spun the wheelchair back to look up at Stella still racing down the lawn. Barnaby this time clearly heard Douglas Hayter laugh. Unable to stop herself from running down the bank, Stella fell into the wheelchair standing firm on the lip of the riverbank.
“Strong arms,” said C E Porter, relaxing from the moment of tension. “That takes real strength to hold the wheels. He was a damn good rower before he lost his legs. I thought both of them were going straight into the water.”
Striding to the open French window, C E called down to the two locked together in the wheelchair their bodies pressed hard against each other. Douglas Hayter unable to take his hands off the wheels. “You two all right?”
For a long moment, nothing happened. The two stayed entwined. Then they watched Stella slowly extricate herself from the wheelchair.
“I think she stayed there longer than she should have done,” said Barnaby nastily.
“You can’t be jealous surely, old boy? He doesn’t have any legs.”
“You don’t need legs to make love to a woman.”
“She’s a well-brought-up American and certainly a virgin. So is Douglas. He told me in confidence some years ago poor chap. Must be dreadful… You are talking rot, Barnaby. And we had better stop. Here comes Cuddles.”
“Did you see that,” she said. “Just like lovers. Fell right into his arms.”
“His arms were holding the wheels,” said Barnaby heading for the French windows.
“Then they really were very close. How romantic… No, Barnaby. Leave them alone. That poor man deserves a little happiness no matter how short the time. Why don’t we all go for a walk? The other way. She’ll be quite safe. It doesn’t look like that poor man could even get himself out of his chair to go anywhere.”
* * *
Two miles downriver on the opposite bank of the River Thames, Christopher Marlowe and Brett Kentrich had arrived at Ferry Cottage. In his pocket was Uncle Wallace’s invitation to the May Ball. Oscar Fleming, the impresario who had staged Happy Times mostly with Harry Brigandshaw’s money, lent them the cottage he had bought as his retreat from London more than twenty years ago. Not only that, but he had lent Christopher his car which he never used when he was living in his flat in town. Christopher would have liked to ask Brett if she had visited the cottage before with Oscar Fleming but decided a row wasn’t worth the asking. The moment they arrived at the cottage he knew what the answer was anyway. Brett knew her way around far too comfortably. To get Brett to come with him to the May Ball was his biggest triumph since seeing Brett for the first time in Clara’s when he was just playing the piano for a living.
Ralph had been the one to bring him the invitation to the theatre and the one to suggest he take Brett as his partner. To Christopher’s great surprise, Brett had jumped at the idea of going to the ball. She had then asked Oscar Fleming for the keys to the cottage and the loan of his car. Despite a considerable bank balance from the money Christopher had received as the co-author with Danny Hill of Happy Times, he had still not bought himself a motor car or moved out of his attic room. He and Danny were now wealthy in many people’s terms but to them, it made no difference. They liked living the way they had always been living. Playing in the band at Clara’s. Danny playing the trumpet well. Christopher playing the piano not very well. Everyone, including the customers who liked Christopher’s habit of sitting with them at the tables between sets, forgiving him the occasional mistakes on the piano.
Ferry Cottage was right on the water with its own enclosed boat shed. Christopher’s first job was to try to start the engine of the wooden-cabin boat Oscar Fleming left locke
d in the shed. Doing exactly what he had been told to do, priming the carburettor, cranking the starter handle this way and that to build up torque, the petrol engine fired with a powerful noise and a cloud of blue smoke before settling down to a steady purr.
That night they were going to chug upriver warm inside the closed cabin and dressed to the nines. On the other side of the river, they would moor the boat at the Nuneham House jetty and walk up the path to the ball. It was perfect. Far better than taking the car and parking far from the great house that stood majestically on the hill just above the river.
To Christopher’s great joy, Brett was in the best of spirits, giving new hope to his old desire. Here he was, alone with his love, a new set of rather dashing evening clothes waiting for him in the boot of the car. Alone with the prettiest girl in the world. Were Christopher able to sing, he would have sung a song from his new musical before deciding Brett’s first hearing would better come from Harvey Lyttleton, the crooner in the band.
“Why are you so happy, Brett?”
“Need you ask? I love going to such a grand ball. This is the pinnacle of the spring season. Some people would just kill for an invitation don’t you know?”
“Do you know some of the guests?”
“I don’t think so.”
“They’ll all know you.”
“Now isn’t that nice. Let’s take the ship upriver and have a look where we are going tonight. Didn’t they tell you to always make a reconnaissance in the army before making an advance? There’s a big light on the front of the ship for when it’s dark. When you go home.”
“They call them boats when they are this size, Brett. Boats… The way you said that last bit suggests it will only be me going home to Ferry Cottage.”
“Of course not, darling. What I meant was you will be driving the boat.”
“Do you mind being alone with me for a night.”
“Why should I? No one will see us out here. You’re not going to bite. Oh, Christopher, I’m so looking forward to the ball. To see all the important people… You do know how to dance?”
“Just not very well. Mother sent us to dancing classes. Ralph is very good. Yes, going with a famous actress is going to be fun.”
“Come on then. Let’s go and have a look. There is a lovely riverside restaurant where we can have lunch. I’m starving. Then we can come back and have an afternoon nap to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Then dress for the dance. I have a new dress just for the occasion. It’s going to be a sensation if it all stays together. A bigger sensation if it doesn’t.”
Brett put her right hand over her mouth and giggled.
“Take her out on the river, captain,” she said uncovering her beautiful mouth so he could see it again. “I’m ready. Do you have any idea how lucky you were to get tickets?”
Besotted, Christopher helped the one and only love of his life down into the boat, every nerve in his body tingling at the feel of her touch.
* * *
They talked to each other all morning, Stella sitting at the foot of the wheelchair on the grass. The last of the April showers sent them scurrying for cover under a tree. After the rain, Douglas took off his tweed jacket and spread it on the lawn over the wet grass. Stella watched his every graceful move despite his impediment, the perfectly chiselled face concentrating with a smile, the long curls of brown hair dropping forward as he bent, the powerful arms in complete control of the jacket as Douglas spread it open for her on its back.
“I’ll get your coat.”
“I’m not cold. I don’t like taking the rug off my knees in company. Or where my knees should be. I’m afraid the Germans did a good job cutting off my legs. The stumps are too short to attach anything. I’m working on a motorised chair which will be fun. Give the old arms a rest.”
“Do you hate them?”
“Not really. We both did the same things to each other. For the life of me, I don’t know why. They were building a fleet to challenge the Royal Navy, which might have challenged our control of the seas giving access to the colonies, as well as the trade routes. Why we had to sit in France opposite each other dug into the ground for four years shelling each other, is a mystery. When my legs went I came back to Riverglade. On a still night with the wind coming from the south-east I could hear the guns. I still can which of course doesn’t make sense. Now sit you down again and tell me all about Boston. How you learnt to sail. The Irish and English are islanders, Stella. Our lives have always been about water. The rivers that lead to the sea. The sea, master and mistress. We have so much in common you and I… Oh, this is lovely. A beautiful day by the beautiful river with a beautiful girl who can talk and think. Riverglade means so much to me. Isn’t life ironic? Were I all in one piece, you would be going to the ball with me tonight.”
“What about Barnaby?”
“I’d have picked a fight and knocked him down. No, dear old Barnaby who isn’t really dear at all would have accepted the inevitable. He thinks I’m crooked in business. Why do we always judge other people by how we treat the world ourselves? He thinks I manipulate commodity prices instead of researching meticulously from all over the world. Then you can see the future shortages and surpluses. I had to do something to save Riverglade after my parents died in a motor car smash. People say fortunes are made and lost in three generations. My great-grandfather made the family fortune. He was a sea captain. A merchant captain and gentleman, though they said he was probably not a gentleman. Quick fortunes are never made in a gentlemanly way. The Cormorant was more a privateer than a merchant ship. Heavily armed. It was during the wars with Napoleon. Any shipping was fair game if they flew a flag that was at war with Britain. No one counted the swag when they came back to home port. People steal from others to get rich. Man’s done it since he came out of the slime. Darwin gave it a polite term: survival of the fittest. Back in the early days, it was simple rape and pillage. His only son, my grandfather, spent most of the money and my father finished off the rest. Great-grandfather built Riverglade. He liked to be beside the water even in his old age when he could no longer go to sea… Now that’s enough of me and my family. Tell me all about yours, Stella?”
“Mainly pushing other people out of the way and taking what they wanted, I suppose. Father now runs contraband whisky from Canada down to the States.”
“Good for him. It’s a stupid law.”
“He won’t admit it to me but people get killed in that kind of illegal trade… Like Barnaby and C E, he uses the information he gleans as a trade union leader to make money on the stock exchange. At least that is legal.”
“Probably not for long. It’s a swindle if you think of it.”
“He’s in politics mainly through the union. The unions and politicians are closely linked in America. My brother is going to be the president of America. You have to have political power to bend the rules to your own advantage, so my father proudly tells me. I still love him very much.”
“Sounds like great-grandfather… And you sailed Massachusetts Bay in a yacht while I sculled the River Thames… Have you ever been in love?”
“My father wants me to marry the eldest son of a duke. He wants his daughter to be a duchess… Let’s go down the towpath and find out what there is at the other end.” Stella felt almost sick with the pain of longing.
“I’d like that… You will let me see you in your ballgown before you all set off for Nuneham Park?”
“Of course, Mr Hayter.”
“Douglas. Please. We British are not all stuffed shirts.”
* * *
Slowly they went off together downriver. From a clump of trees high up beside the road above Riverglade, Barnaby watched them go. This time he found himself even more jealous of the cripple.
* * *
Douglas Hayter quite unaware of Barnaby and his animosity on the hill turned the wheels over and over slowly with his hands. Stella was telling him all about Boston. About her sister in a convent and her brothers. About the new world, that
was America.
Douglas listened sadly, building up his own pain he knew very soon was going to hurt more than the loss of his legs. At first, he thought she was just being nice to a man with no legs. At that moment Douglas knew he should have turned around and gone back to the house where everything was calm and familiar and let them all go off happily to the dance. He always had work to do. He should take himself off to work instead of memorising Stella as she walked, talking softly, always smiling, mostly smiling at him. Given so much time to think on his own, Douglas knew the girl was just as beautiful on the inside as on the out.
By the time they turned around to go back for lunch, Stella found herself thinking she had not been her usual, spoilt little bitch even once. If the feeling inside her was being truly happy, she had never felt it before. Why, she asked herself, was love so sudden?
* * *
The Swan had been Harry Brigandshaw’s favourite watering hole during his student days at Oxford. They had arrived in time for lunch having spoken not a word on the journey from London in the car. Harry would have liked to ride down on the motorcycle except for the evening clothes they would change into for the ball. Instead, he had taken a pool car from the office as he did when he needed transport out of town. Owning another vehicle when he wanted to go back to Africa was an unnecessary expense. Like his mother had told him from a child, Harry never liked to waste money.