by Peter Rimmer
“Throw away a stale loaf of bread and one day you’ll want to eat it. Don’t be mean in life, Harry, just don’t waste. There are a lot of hungry people in this imperfect world.”
Whenever Harry indulged himself, he felt a tweak of guilt. Which was why they were staying in the Swan instead of some posh hotel covered in chrome.
The Swan, right on the River Thames was as beautiful a spot as Harry had ever known. The very sight of the place melted his animosity along with the wrong reason for going to the May Ball. Smiling at Tina for the first time in a long while, Harry decided they were both going to have a good time and his old tutor at Oxford could wait.
“Twenty years and nothing has changed. I’ll show you around Oxford if you don’t mind a walk. I miss my long walks in the bush with a gun for protection more than I realised.”
“I’d love that, Harry. Thank you for smiling. Life is so short. We have so much you and I that is good together. I’m just so sorry. So, so sorry.”
“Did you buy a new gown?”
“Oh, I did.”
“You’ll knock them dead… They have a steak and kidney pie in this place that puts the food at the Savoy to shame. And rough cider. We’ll both eat in the bar with the students if they’ll let us. The official word is no women in the bar but we broke that rule most of the time.”
“What was her name?”
“What was whose name?”
“The girl you brought here to break the rules.”
“I can’t remember?”
“I’ll bet you can.”
“Carol Lambert. A complete tease. Everyone tried and everyone failed.”
“I’m glad.”
Harry put his hand on his wife’s elbow as they went through into the bar. The place was raucous, full of young people who had been too young to be in the war. Sprinkled among the students were the pretty girls.
They both smelled the steak and kidney pie at the same time.
“I’m starving,” said Tina praying Harry’s good mood would continue through the day.
“Come on. They’ll think I’m a don and make room for us at the bar. You watch. Having an old husband can have advantages.”
“You’re not old, Harry.”
“Sometimes I’m not sure. Today I feel young. There they go. Thank you, gentlemen.” Harry smiled at all the youngsters.
“The seat’s not for you sir, it’s for the pretty girl.” He was probably nineteen with a twinkle in his eye Harry liked.
“The pretty girl is my wife. I was here as a student myself.”
Harry was about to add the twenty years ago and found Tina shaking her head. She was smiling at him with a look of longing Harry had never seen before. The student got off his stool and gave it to Harry with a smile and a small bow.
“It must have been wonderful,” said Tina smiling at the man. The young man looked flustered. “I was referring to my husband’s days at the university.”
“They were,” said Harry.
“Where are you from, sir? Your accent is a little unfamiliar,” said the nineteen-year-old.
“Africa, actually. Rhodesia. I have a farm.”
“Wow,” said the man.
“Since you gave us your chairs I’d better give you all a drink. In my day, I was pretty near broke most of the time. That probably hasn’t changed either.”
For some reason Harry could not imagine, it was the best lunch he had had in a very long time. When the closing bell rang in the bar at half past two, Harry thought they had been in the Swan only a few minutes, not more than an hour. Both of them were slightly drunk on the cider when they went outside for their walk. They had made many young friends in a short time. As they walked among the colleges, the buildings with tall spires built centuries before, the history of England was all around them. Harry, comfortable with his English heritage was happy again they had won the war and hoped the students they had laughed with would never have to see another one.
“So much of England has survived for so long,” said Harry.
Tina bit her tongue and kept her mouth shut. It was exactly as she felt. England was familiar, part of her being alive. Rhodesia frightened her. In England, she felt safe. In Africa, there were strange animals, spiders, snakes and people who barely wore clothes.
* * *
Ignatius Bowes-Lyon was one of the first to arrive at the ball for the reason he had nothing better to do. He was alone. His partner to be, had gone down with flu the very same day. Or so she said.
His cousin had married the Duke of York, the second son of King George the Fifth, which Ignatius knew was the reason for his invitation. People were impressed with influence when it stretched right to the top. If Elizabeth had not married, he would be sitting in his room in London wondering what to do with the rest of his life. He had come to Oxford more out of boredom than anything else. For something to do, hoping his evening clothes would not look too out of fashion.
What the fuss was all about he had no idea but people were funny. Edward, Prince of Wales was going to be the next King of England not the Duke of York. He had only met his cousin twice, the daughter of the Earl of Strathmore and Kinghorne. Ignatius sometimes said to his few real friends he was so far from the money there was not a penny in sight. Were it not for Harry Brigandshaw’s retainer, while the Short Brothers built their flying boat, he would be broke. On the streets. Or off to the colonies where most of the broke aristocrats seemed to finish up trying to impress the Colonials with their pedigree. Ignatius often wondered what happened to people like that in the end.
“Probably just fade away.”
“I’m sorry, old chap, do I know you?”
“Probably not,” said Ignatius to the strange man.
Ignatius wished he had stayed in London. In his one room. Alone. Thinking of a fleet of flying boats with which he was going to conquer the passenger market of the world. In his vision, he saw ships as defunct, except to carry heavy cargo.
The man had turned his back rudely at the rude reply leaving Ignatius not caring less. Strangely, he missed the war. The camaraderie. In the war, Ignatius as a pilot had felt wanted. Not another fading aristocrat without money and a proper job. Just a life to be got through without prospects.
“Why do we always need so much money?”
This time nobody tried to enter his conversation with himself. Ignatius had picked up talking aloud to himself during the war on the dawn patrol. It had kept him alert. Probably saved his life.
Taking another look around to see if he knew anyone, he saw Barnaby St Clair with a girl he had never seen before which Ignatius thought was no surprise.
The old mansion was filling up. The band was playing what the American cousins called swing. A big band for a dance but then it was the dance of the spring.
Just to get his bearings, Ignatius found the ballroom before the place was swamped with people. No one was dancing. A few like him looking around a little lost. The high, frescoed ceiling, the heavy chandeliers, the slightly uneven wooden floor that would not matter when the five hundred guests packed the dance floor swaying to the music as if they were in a nightclub trying to avoid bumping shoulders with strangers. Balls, to Ignatius, were a bore except for the money Lady Harcourt would raise for the Red Cross.
Ignatius remembered the Red Cross from the war when a Hun had shot him down in flames. Luckily behind the British lines where the Germans were trying to bomb the British guns under the umbrella of a rare fighter escort. There had been fifteen German aircraft. Ignatius was alone in the Sopwith Camel on his way home after patrolling the front and being waved back by Harry Brigandshaw after running out of ammunition. With the stupidity and bravado of youth, Ignatius had flown his plane through the German bombers to put them off their aim throwing bombs out of the open cockpits on to the guns not far down below. Ignatius had taken British rifle fire when the German triplane got on his tail. The Tommies were blazing away at the German bombers with everything they had. The gunners had him out of the
burning aircraft. The Red Cross had patched him up. He had given Lady Harcourt a cheque for ten pounds that was more than he could afford. It was always good to remember.
Ignatius found a small bar off the ballroom, looking out on the long terrace that ran the length of the house. Along the low wall of the terrace were intermittent steps down to the lawns with large, tall flowerpots on either side bursting with flowers.
Through the trees was the Thames, dark in the valley. The trees were sparkling with fairy lights and couples were standing underneath them, the sight of them making Ignatius feel lonely. Ignatius thought the small room must have been a sewing room for the ladies of the house before it was emptied for the ball. The whole bottom floor of the mansion was open to the guests. Bars and flunkies in some of the smaller rooms. Tables, set with flowers in beautiful vases, waiting for the waiters to bring in the buffet supper they would serve to the guests for most of the night. In some of the rooms were violin players in pairs, playing music in the background. From one room Ignatius heard Vivaldi. Another, Mozart. The pillar at his back kept Ignatius safe as he drank slowly but with a purpose to mellow his rotten mood. Only when he was mellow was Ignatius able to join the small talk, use the polite phrases that meant very little as was their intention. Ignatius knew he had to be a little drunk to talk to people like that. Not really drunk. He hated being drunk and out of control as they had done in the Flying Corps when bad weather grounded the Germans and the British… Too often, his mind went back to the war where things then had mattered. Where men were real men and said what they wanted knowing they’d likely be dead by the end of the month. Only during the war years had Ignatius felt so alive.
They were lucky for the night. There was no rain and no sign of it.
Ignatius went to the open window that opened up from the level of his knees. Boats with searchlights were making for the jetty. Women in long, billowing gowns were being helped out of the boats by men in livery, who were holding umbrellas, in case they were needed, as well as hurricane lamps. There was a tall tree at the top of the jetty on the end near to the house with a tall, thin trunk Ignatius thought likely was an elm. The path from the jetty came up to the set of stone steps right in front of his window. One of the beautiful girls walking up the gravel path Ignatius recognised as the star of the musical stage, and had met her, but racking his brains, he just couldn’t remember her name. Ignatius only rarely went to the theatre. He preferred a good book on his own now there was no girl in his life… The right girls were not interested in paupers however blue his blood. However nice a person. Not to be serious with.
Ignatius began to enjoy himself speculating on each new guest up the path from the river. The booze was finally making him mellow. They sometimes looked in the room but did not seem to see him with the tall glass in his hand and his back to the round pillar. When he looked up, the pillar rose high through the ceiling, most probably helping to hold up the house.
Some new guests came into the room that was serving as a bar and stood next to the low table covered with the drinks. They looked across at him inquiringly standing on his own. When he failed to acknowledge the nods of the men they left him alone. The noise coming from all through the house was mounting so Ignatius could no longer hear the cars pulling up on the gravel in front. The building was aflame with light from the clumps of lamps the caterers had somehow positioned on the grass and in the trees.
When there were so many people, Ignatius liked to come early to find a good parking place for his small, red two-seater – the only possession he had ever truly loved in his life. He was pointed back down the driveway next to a yew hedge so when he left he would not have to turn the car around. Ignatius hoped no one had parked in front of him or he would not be able to get out. He was driving back to his London room in the dark for lack of money to stay in a hotel. No one in Oxfordshire had invited him to stay. Not for a long time.
Once again he was asking himself why he had bothered to come and give Lady Harcourt the cheque instead of putting it in the post when he felt a tug at the arm of his jacket. He was so far away in his mind he had not seen the person standing next to him.
“Good evening, Iggy. We might need some help,” said Merlin St Clair. “Harry is here with Tina and Barnaby with some girl from America. I had a word with Cuddles Morton-Sayner to find out. To add to the trouble, Brett Kentrich has arrived with Christopher Marlowe and that is certainly not by coincidence. Are you alone?”
“Ah, Miss Kentrich, I saw her earlier and I couldn’t remember her name. And yes, Merlin, I am alone. Where’s Harry?”
“Milling around somewhere. That young brother of mine is a menace. I think he knew Harry was bringing Tina. All we need is a family scene. You’ll have to help me keep them apart, please. I can’t abide scenes.”
“How do we do that with everyone milling around?”
“I have no idea. I can’t very well tell my brother to go home now can I? Frankly, we’re not talking to each other.”
“Are you alone too?”
“Yes.”
“How about Miss Kentrich being here?”
“They have understudies, the big stars. Millie isn’t exactly a star.”
“Could have brought someone else?”
“Robert and I are looking for wives. To stop a brat of Barnaby’s inheriting.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Neither did we until young Richard died. Poor Millie. She would have liked all this nonsense.”
“But you said you were looking for a wife?”
“Quite frankly I’ve no notion where to start or where to look. Millie isn’t complicated. Wives are complicated. With so many brothers I never thought it would matter whether I’m married or not.” Merlin was smiling, thinking of his illegitimate daughter by Esther the one-time barmaid at the Running Horses in Mickleham.
“Then maybe Robert?”
“He’s in America. Been there for months. No idea what he is up to. Never writes letters. Says writing books is quite enough for him. Very inconsiderate. You can’t rely on Robert when it comes to that kind of thing.”
“Maybe he has found a nice girl in America.”
“I really hope so. You will help, old chap?”
“Of course. Harry’s my boss.”
“I forgot that. Oh, thank goodness. I’m no good at scenes.”
* * *
Cuddles Morton-Sayner never forgot a face. The first time she met Merlin St Clair a dog ran away from him squealing with its tail between its legs. The very look of Merlin gave her the shivers. Two completely different eyes looking at her with one through a monocle. She had never been surprised he had never married despite making his fortune on the stock exchange. To Cuddles’s mind, no woman in her right senses would choose to wake up every morning and have to look into that face.
When Merlin had asked her who his brother had brought to the dance, she told him a little about Stella Fitzgerald.
“Just an American. She invited your brother.”
“How on earth did an American get an invitation to this?”
“Her father’s very rich.”
“Explains Barnaby. Thank you, Prudence. Nice to see you again, C E.”
“He’s the only person in London who calls you Prudence,” said C E watching Merlin’s receding back.
“Who’s Prudence?” said Stella leaving Barnaby talking business with a drink in his hand.
“Me. That was Barnaby’s brother asking who you were.”
“Why didn’t he ask Barnaby?”
“I have no idea,” lied Cuddles. “Over there is Lord Montagu, the eldest son of the Duke of Manchester. One of the oldest dukedoms in England outside the Royals. Someone said Manchester was named after family and not the other way round. Probably one of those stories… Oh dear, he has that Australian girl in tow. Rumour has it they are getting engaged. Montagu has coffee estates in Kenya. Ginty, the girl’s sister, is married to one of the few rich Australian industrialists. Quite beautiful g
irls.” Cuddles smiled. She had changed the subject.
“How do you know so much about people?”
“I never forget a face. Come along Stella, there’s a young man I wish you to meet. We can leave Barnaby to talk business. Will you excuse us for a moment C E?”
* * *
Ignatius Bowes-Lyon found Harry Brigandshaw on the lawn, smoking a cigarette on his own.
“What you doing out here, old chap?”
“Keeping out of the way till the place fills up. My wife has gone to the powder room… Brett is here. With Christopher Madgwick. How do these women do it? She wanted me to bring her but of course I couldn’t. She arranged for me to receive an invitation through Cuddles Morton-Sayner. I had no idea. How on earth did Christopher get invited? He hates this kind of thing as much as I do.”
“Barnaby is here, Harry. Merlin told me to warn you. With some rich American girl. Probably another client of Cuddles.”
* * *
Brett Kentrich had earlier been enjoying herself watching Harry on the lawn. She knew he had seen her ten minutes before. She had waved over the crowd that was still thin enough to allow her to recognise people on the other side of the room.
Fortunately for Christopher’s well-being, he had been looking the other way when Brett waved at Harry. Christopher was now basking in the admiring looks directed at Brett. Being her escort for the night made him envied by half the men at the ball. He was smiling back at perfect strangers having yet to see anyone he knew which when he thought about it was not so surprising. Except at Clara’s, he did not mix with society and then only as the piano player. Christopher had tied his long hair at the back to stop it flopping over his face, giving himself a ponytail… He had never seen Brett look more gorgeous. The new dress showed her ivory skin to the best and went against the current fashion by lifting her breasts. A few of the prettier young girls were wearing the new fashion. Everyone seemed to be coming across to talk to Brett making his lack of conversation not so noticeable. All Christopher had to do was stand and be with Brett, tending to her needs.