To the Manor Born

by Peter Rimmer

  Douglas found his underpants on the floor beside his bed, picked them up with difficulty and pulled them on. Then he dressed and shifted himself off the bed into the wheelchair.

  The grandfather clock in the hall was at ten past ten. Douglas wheeled himself into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. On the small breakfast table was a note from C E Porter.

  “Problem with the car, old chap. Taken the train. Nice day for a walk to the station. We’ll be back to collect the extra clothes. Wonderful evening. Trust you slept all right.”

  As he made the tea from the kettle he had boiled on the hob, Douglas Hayter was whistling.

  “She’ll be back,” he said, smiling at his cat.

  The cat, as usual, did not bother to even look up at him.

  10

  February 1928 – Fathers and Daughters

  While Tina Brigandshaw was giving birth to her fourth child in a Paddington nursing home, Ralph Madgwick was moving into his new offices across the pond. The building on the docks was owned by the Blue Funnel Steamship Company of New York and was two stories high. The ground floor was one vast open-plan warehouse with wire cages full of different cargo. The floor above was offices full of clerks handling all the paper. Ralph’s first job had been renting space for himself and a secretary. For many years, Madgwick and Madgwick in London had done business with Blue Funnel in New York.

  * * *

  Uncle Wallace had been impressed with Postlethwaite’s report of Ralph’s progress.

  “Being out on his own will likely make him concentrate, Mr Madgwick. You can’t run off for advice when something requires immediate attention. Even the telephone won’t help at such a distance. Decisions will have to be his own. He does now know the difference between payment by letter of credit and payment by cash against documents. Along with the financial implications. Your nephew has a first-class brain when he applies himself. Can I recommend Miss Prescott goes with him? I’ve had a word with her. She’s quite willing to go to America. Seemed rather anxious as a matter of fact.”

  “What a splendid idea, Mr Postlethwaite. What a splendid idea. She can keep an eye on him in more ways than one.”

  “Were Miss Prescott a man, she would have made a first-class departmental manager.”

  “Oh, well. The new ways of the world haven’t gone that far quite yet. Dear oh dear. What a ghastly thought. I’ve known a few women in my life who love to order people around. How long must we leave Ralph in America before we can give him my job?”

  “At least two years, sir.”

  “As long as that…? I was hoping… Miss Prescott can write us reports of his progress. If they are very good, maybe. If he puts on lots of business for instance.”

  “If he breaks into American business he may not wish to come back.”

  “Now that is a dreadful thought. I’ll have to die in harness. Did I tell you about my small estate in Cumbria? It really is very beautiful. The house is on a lovely slope…”

  Postlethwaite, who had so far been standing hoping the conversation with the senior partner in the senior partner’s office would not go in the direction it was now going, sat down. While Uncle Wallace rambled on, Postlethwaite let his mind run through the rest of the problems in the office. Whether Ralph Madgwick went to America and came back again was right at the bottom of the pile. The very least of his worries!

  “When can he go?”

  “Who, sir?”

  “Ralph, of course.”

  “As soon as it can be arranged, I suppose.”

  “Excellent. Ask Miss Prescott to come in. I’ll give her specific instructions to make sure Ralph comes back to England. Don’t want a Madgwick turning into an American, do we? I always remember that bit about the Boston Tea Party. All that tea floating in wooden chests around the bay. Goodness me, everyone has to pay their taxes. Even Americans. How can such a silly thing start such a big revolution? Now if the Empire had stuck together as it should have done, Germany would not have gone to war in the first place. They always say families should stick together if they want to get on in life. Why I was talking to a chap in the club last week who talked of another war with Germany. As if we didn’t have enough trouble the last time… Where are you going, Mr Postlethwaite?”

  “I have to spend a penny. I have a…”

  “Of course. Run along. Nature doesn’t stop for anyone.”

  * * *

  The view from Ralph’s office was out over a bleak New York harbour. It was snowing and the ships were shrouded in white. Like ghosts lying silent. Inside, unlike an English office, the two rooms rented by Madgwick and Madgwick were warm: the Americans had installed central heating.

  By the time Rosie Prescott made contact with the local telephone company, things to her seemed quite out of hand. The only thing she seemed to have in common with the Americans was the English language.

  “Use my phone, lady. Local calls cost nothing in America,” said one of the Blue Funnel clerks. In England, a local call cost a penny.

  “Thank you, Mr Rossini.”

  “Alberto. That’s my name, Rosie.” Back home, people used their Christian names in families. Never with strangers.

  “Will they give us our own telephone by the end of the month?”

  “In an hour, lady.”

  “That’s unheard of in London.”

  “Here the phone company’s a business that tries to make the shareholders a profit. Quicker they give you a line, quicker they start charging you for calls you make to London, Rosie. Within an hour. Longer than that, you ask your man Ralph to kick his fanny when he comes to put in the line.”

  “Fanny, Mr Rossini, really!”

  “Call me Alberto. Just use my phone and call them.”

  Inside his office, Ralph was wearing a broad grin when Rosie came into report progress.

  “What are you grinning about, sir?”

  “What’s this, sir, all of a sudden?”

  “You are now my boss.”

  “We’re in America, Rosie. Call me Ralph. And just for your self-edification Rosie Prescott, in America the bonnet of a car is the hood, the boot the trunk and the thing we all sit on a fanny, not a bottom, and certainly not what you were thinking of out there talking to Alberto.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’s right, Rosie,” called Alberto. “The arse in America is the fanny.”

  “How most dreadfully confusing.”

  The thin walls of the office partitions had allowed the staff of Blue Funnel to be part of the private conversation. Rosie’s shocked, very English reply, brought forth a gale of instant laughter.

  “Welcome to America,” someone called.

  Rosie Prescott blushed bright red right to the roots of her hair.

  * * *

  When Ralph was alone again he got up from behind the desk that had been delivered that morning and again looked out of the window on to the docks. People were moving around doing their business in the snow. No one seemed to care about the weather. The guffaw of laughter had given Ralph a warm feeling of welcome. He was going to enjoy America. Even more than he had thought.

  Somewhere out there he knew Rebecca was going about her day. Ralph knew they could either meet in secret as if they were doing something wrong or he could first go and ask Sir Jacob if he may court his daughter.

  Ralph began to pace his small office, deep in thought. Rosie had closed the door to his office to hide her embarrassment.

  “Poor Rosie. She’ll learn,” he said to himself. “Poor Rosie.” Not only did he know why she had been sent to America by his Uncle Wallace, he knew why Rosie had accepted. To tell her he was fond of her but not in that way would make everything worse. To say nothing would be unfair to Rosie Prescott. To add to his woes a stab of fear hit the pit of his stomach at the thought of meeting Rebecca again so soon. Was it just all letters? The build-up in their imaginations creating for each of them what they wanted from the other only in their minds. Would they meet again as lovers or stra
ngers that the months had torn apart? He didn’t really know the girl, he told himself. Just that instant attraction they hoped had changed their lives. How much was going to be real? How much was just a figment of their imaginations?

  Before Ralph could make up his mind as to what he was going to do next, a young man in a smart uniform was shown into his office by Rosie. A Rosie who had regained her composure. The young man was grinning all over his face as he would at an old friend.

  “Can I help you?” asked Ralph retreating behind his British reserve. So far as he knew he had never seen the man before in his life.

  “Where do you want it?”

  “Where do I want what, my man?”

  “Your telephone. Am I too late? Did the other company get here first?”

  “You have more than one telephone company in New York?”

  “We sure do.” Even Ralph found himself learning. In England, the telephone company was the government.

  “Just on my desk. On the right. And an extension for Miss Prescott.”

  “Rosie’s nice. Says I can have a cup of tea when I’m finished. Now that’s nice… You British?”

  “English.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Stopping himself from a long conversation that would take neither of them anywhere, Ralph kept his mouth shut. He had had an idea. He was first going to pay a courtesy call on Sir Jacob Rosenzweig. After all, he was the local representative of one of Rosenzweig’s larger clients… A plan was beginning to form in his mind.

  * * *

  The last person in the world Sir Jacob Rosenzweig expected to see walking into his office the next morning was Ralph Madgwick. By bad luck, he was standing at reception wishing a valued depositor goodbye by seeing the man to the lift. Sir Jacob’s first thought was to ask Ralph Madgwick what he was doing in America which would have been stupid. After the letter delivered to Rebecca in Central Park it was obvious they had been writing to each other. Sir Jacob had the bizarre idea the man had come to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage. After all, he had run out of England with Rebecca and destroyed Ralph Madgwick’s letters to his daughter.

  “Good morning, Sir Jacob. Well, this is nice. Came in just on the chance. Took me a week to put the office together and quite rightly you are my first call. Rather pleasant to see a friendly face if you know what I mean… Both of us so far from home.”

  On the outside, Ralph looked as cheerful as the man who a day before had put in his office telephone. Inside Ralph was terrified. The palms of his hands were sweating just as they had before going over the top in a dawn attack during the war. His heart was pounding as Sir Jacob Rosenzweig gaped at him without saying a word.

  “I’m Ralph Madgwick, sir.”

  “I know that.”

  “Of Madgwick and Madgwick, New York. The company is not yet incorporated but the corporate lawyer said it would be by the end of next month. The only thing that has taken any time, a matter of fact. Which was why I came to see you before the shares are registered with the American authorities. I want to offer you twenty per cent of Madgwick and Madgwick Inc.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You didn’t know we were opening an American office?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “My Uncle Wallace said he had written to you, sir.” Ralph felt the blush coming to his face at the lie but luckily Sir Jacob had turned his back and was walking away. It was all going worse than the worst scenario he had imagined.

  “You’d better follow me to my office, young man.”

  Like the small boy at school following his housemaster into the housemaster’s study for a caning, Ralph followed the tall, thin man with the face that reminded Ralph of a predatory hawk. At that point, Rebecca was clean out of his mind. All he wanted to do was save his skin. People were staring at him.

  Inside the big office, Sir Jacob gently shut the door in a way more menacing than if the door had been slammed in Ralph’s face.

  “Have you seen Rebecca?” snapped Sir Jacob Rosenzweig.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Sit down before you fall down… Now. What is this all about? From the very beginning. And don’t lie to me. And yes, before you start, I did burn your letters, something I have yet to tell Rebecca.”

  Instead of the conversation he had planned in his mind, Ralph gabbled. All the statements of them both having the same God to being Englishmen fled out of his mind at the man’s stare. All Ralph could talk about was his plans for his company. Even his request to be introduced to bank clients who might like his services was met with a cold, silent stare. At the end of the ordeal, Ralph stood up to go and put out his hand to shake hands with Sir Jacob. The man with the hawk-like face kept staring into his eyes without a word and without getting up from his seat.

  “Goodbye, sir. It’s been very nice seeing you again, sir. We did have a little chat at your company’s anniversary in London, sir. A brief chat. Goodbye, sir. I hope you’re liking America. Don’t bother getting up I’ll see myself out. Goodbye, sir.”

  Like a man with lead feet, Ralph made it to the door, opened it, got himself out and shut the door to Sir Jacob’s office without turning around. Then he walked to the lift. Everyone in the outside office was gaping at him.

  It was the longest one-sided conversation Ralph had ever had in his life. Only when he reached the street did he begin to feel comfortable again. The snow was still falling on the wide streets of New York as Ralph walked the pavement, his mind seething from impatience.

  “The old codger can’t say I didn’t try doing the right thing. Now, Sir Jacob Rosenzweig, it is war. War is something I know.”

  Not unsurprisingly, nobody on the busy street took the slightest notice of a man talking to himself. It took Ralph half the morning to calm down before he walked back to his office.

  “So the ogre bit your head off?” said Rosie Prescott with a smile.

  “Something like that. He didn’t seem to want the shares.”

  “Or you. Good. Your Uncle Wallace phoned.”

  “How does he know our number so soon?”

  “I told him. My first call. Alberto was right. The phone company are making money out of us the second day in our new office.”

  “At least someone is winning.”

  “What are you going to do Ralph?”

  “What did Uncle Wallace want?”

  “We have our first client. You’re to go and see them. Give you something to think about.”

  “I’ve plenty to think about, Rosie Prescott. It’s just that right now none of it is very pleasant.”

  * * *

  After a year in America, Robert St Clair had forgotten Ralph Madgwick and his unrequited love for Rebecca Rosenzweig. Only when he reached New York with the finished manuscript of Holy Knight was the sequence of events brought back to him by Freya Taylor; the same week Ralph Madgwick opened his New York office.

  Robert and Freya had been in New York a week and were walking slowly past Central Park, the pavement icy from the earlier snow, Freya holding Robert’s arm in case his prosthetic foot caused him to slip. Robert had insisted on the walk to give him some fresh air. He was the only person Freya had ever met who left open the bedroom window in the depth of winter. Freya had long concluded the English were different despite their common ancestry and language.

  A policeman in white gloves had stopped the traffic and was signalling to pedestrians they could now cross the wide road and go into the park.

  “I gave her the letter right there,” said Freya.

  “What letter?” said Robert having no idea what she was talking about.

  “The one you sent Glen which I gave to Rebecca.”

  He walked on for a full minute without making any reply. She thought Robert had not heard what she said which was quite common. When the plot of the book was running through his mind, it was as if nothing around him existed. During those times, Freya completely lost him. She had learnt not to interrupt hi
s thoughts or the scene in his head would go away.

  They walked on arm in arm, which was nice. Freya was glowing with happiness. Not only was she now a fully-fledged journalist with her own syndicated column, but she was also the first person to have been allowed to read the handwritten manuscript of Holy Knight. Despite all the crossings and corrections, the story of Robert’s ancestor who had gone on the Third Crusade had kept her engrossed right through to the end of the long story and the Crusaders’ attempt to reconquer the Holy Land for the Pope.

  “Strange how what at the time seems such a small thing can completely change a man’s life. Will you marry me, Freya? I’m missing a foot and have spent more than half my life, which may make you think I’m not worth much.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You and Ralph Madgwick’s letter and Glen sending me your love in the cable. Doing one good turn gave us another. Or do you really think me too old and my book no good.”

  “Cleaned up, typed and printed in a book, Holy Knight will sell better than Keeper of the Legend.”

  “I didn’t ask how many copies it will sell, Freya… So it was back there at the crossing it all started. I wonder if anything became of the two of them.”

  “Oh, yes. I was going to tell you weeks ago when I put the story in Juliet under false names. Ralph should be here right now in New York. You were still absorbed at the end of your book and I didn’t think you’d need the distraction.”

  “Did you hear what I said earlier on?”

  “Lovers never marry, Robert. It’s bad form. The moment they marry, they quarrel and split up. I don’t want to lose you. In a better age, we’d just live together instead of running two homes.”

  “I will never understand women.”

  “They should have met by now.”

  “Who?”

  “Rebecca and Ralph. Now that sequence of events should lead to a nice clean marriage.”

  “So seducing me wasn’t clean?”