by Peter Rimmer
“Portia, how about the four of us taking in a show? The others have to work. Mr van Heerden and his lady have agreed to join me for the evening. The night is young. You never just know. Maybe we will all be together again before the night passes.” Barnaby was smiling wickedly at Robert. “You might tell Merlin I’ll catch him later, Robert. Don’t forget what I said. The family must always stay together. A house divided is never strong. Till all shall meet again… Edward, I must congratulate you on such beautiful canapés.”
Robert, fully aware of his brother’s devious mind, had gone white as a sheet.
“Where are you going for supper, Barnaby?” he asked.
“Clara’s, of course. Where Christopher plays the piano. I asked Clara to put us all on the same table but only after you and your fiancée have had a good chat with your American publisher. Clara said you were engaged which explains that lovely ring on your finger, Freya. Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, heavens, everyone but Barnaby is getting married. Please, Portia, join me tonight. We will have a family celebration at a lovely restaurant where so many of our lives have crossed. At Clara’s. It’s a beautiful evening. Portia, why don’t I find you a taxi so you can change for the theatre out of that stunning cocktail dress. Then I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”
“An evening out with you and Portia will be splendid,” said Gert, “Jane is not in Brett’s show tonight and can join us at Clara’s. Don’t you want to hear the music before you back Christopher’s new musical?”
“Whatever for? I know nothing about music or the theatre except as part of an audience. Is it is good as Happy Times?”
“Better.”
“There you are. I’ll make a fortune. Harry doesn’t know what he’s missed. When did he leave for Africa?”
“Today.”
“They always say one door closes while another door opens. Now isn’t that so true? So it is settled. I will finance A Walk in the Woods.”
“We are not exactly engaged,” said Freya. “The ring is on the wrong finger.”
“Very soon I’m sure my brother will put it on the correct finger and you’ll both live happily ever after. I’m so looking forward to the launch party for Holy Knight at the Dorchester. I am invited aren’t I, Robert?”
“Of course. You all are.”
“Splendid. I have another brilliant idea. You and Freya can take in the same show with us and then go on to Clara’s. Why you must have talked out everything there is to say with your publisher who will love to meet another member of Sir Henri Saint Claire Debussy’s family don’t you think…? Is there something wrong, Robert?”
“Nothing at all I hope, Barnaby.”
“Trust me. It’s going to go on being a lovely evening… Freya was telling me earlier you met Stella Fitzgerald in America. At some place called 21 after they put the spotlight on you, Robert. She’s marrying John Lacey according to the papers. She and I had a lovely evening at Lady Harcourt’s May Ball. Harry was there with our old friend from my childhood, his wife Tina… So Stella finally got what she wanted. A husband with a title. I’m sure they’re going to be oh so happy… Now… What show are we going to see? Probably have to find a spiv to sell us tickets if the show is sold out. Those chaps are a menace until you need them but everyone has to make a living. But first, we need a taxi for Portia to go home and change. What a pity Merlin did not want to come out tonight. All the brothers together. So much fun.”
Turning his back on his brother, Barnaby went off to look for a growler taxi down in the street. For one splendid moment, he thought Robert was going to take a swipe at him… Revenge, when it came, was always so sweet he chortled to himself as he walked out of his house into Piccadilly. Within a minute he had flagged down a taxi.
* * *
The following Tuesday Robert gave a brief speech at the launch of Holy Knight and asked the guests if they had any questions. The ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel was dressed to look like a mediaeval banqueting hall. Banners hung from the ceilings splashed with the emblems of long-dead knights. Suits of armour the publishers had borrowed from the British Museum stood along the walls. Effigies of knights in chain armour, their chain-mailed hands resting at chest level on the handle of the swords stood at the entrance to the long room. Waiters, dressed in smocks bearing the red cross of St George and England, were ready with trays of food and drink. They were to mingle with the men and women: the literate of London, Robert’s few friends and family, the staff of Robert’s British publisher who had worked so hard on the text and cover of his book along with the hangers-on who came for the free drink and food with no other interest whatsoever.
Merlin was there looking up at his brother on the rostrum, unaware of any possible drama. Lord and Lady St Clair, along with Robert’s sisters had declined a long journey from home to attend a two-hour cocktail party much to Robert’s relief. On tables all around the room, Robert could see pyramids of his book. Later he was to sign copies for any of the guests inclined to take a copy, something Robert hated doing. The idea of himself in their eyes as a famous author had never sat well on his shoulders. Some people had the habit of trying to ingratiate themselves, which to Robert was the wrong way round. So far as he was concerned they were doing him a favour by reading his book, the only way his characters could come alive. Inside the pages of a closed book, everyone was dead.
One reporter asked him if he was going to continue living in America. Robert said he was not sure. Another asked what the title of his next book was, and what it was about. Robert said he had yet to begin another book and that it took time for a new idea to grow. That he was going down to his family home in Dorset to walk and think despite having one foot… The papers had more than once talked of his wound from the war.
“Are you going to write a book on your experiences in France during the war, Mr St Clair?” The man had an American accent.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“War is terrible.”
“The Crusades were a war.”
“A holy war.”
“Not just a way for your ancestor to cut himself a farm in Palestine, build himself a castle and tax the trade route that passed through his property.”
“My ancestor was providing security of passage for the merchant caravans. Robbers would have taken far more and likely killed the men and their camels.”
“But he came home with a fortune and built Corfe Castle in Dorset.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Do you have proof?”
“It was a very long time ago.”
“There were parchments in the wall, were there not? Every publicity stunt in America talked about your great-grandfather and the silver chalice hitting a hollow in the wall of your Dorset home. Wouldn’t parchments locked away for so long have disintegrated?”
“No.”
“May we see the parchments, Mr St Clair?”
“They are locked away.”
“Proof, Mr St Clair. Why not the proof that your tale is true?” The man was almost snarling at Robert.
“There were things my ancestors did I don’t wish to broadcast.”
“So it was really just the same old rape and pillage back then?”
“Nothing changes.”
“Will your brothers who are here tonight confirm the authenticity of Sir Henri Claire Debussy’s hidden documents?”
Robert began to sweat in the growing silence. Max Pearl, Robert could see, was annoyed. Merlin had the expression on his face of horror. Robert looked at Barnaby a few feet away down on the ballroom floor. Barnaby was enjoying himself.
“You’ll have to take my word,” said Robert into the silence. Everyone in the ballroom was watching him. “There was no proof of King Arthur and Camelot. At least you can see the ruins of my ancestors’ castle. No one has ever found Camelot but we all believe the legend to be true.” Many of the guests were now smiling. Everyone liked to see someone richer or more famous than them come down a peg or two.
; “Why can’t we see the parchments, Mr St Clair?”
“They belong to my family. What we wish to be known is in my book on the tables. That much you’re welcome to read.”
“Very condescending of you, Mr St Clair.”
Robert could see Barnaby moving towards the rostrum on which he was standing. His whole stomach was churning with fright. Barnaby stepped up next to him squeezing on to the rostrum before leaning forward towards the microphone.
“My name is the Honourable Barnaby St Clair. I am Robert’s youngest brother.” Barnaby paused. “I have seen the parchments and read them many times. Some of the reading was not good. I spent the last war mostly in Palestine. We British were not all saints then in Palestine. Neither were we before. Maybe we won’t be again someday… There was a war on. People do things in war that look appalling from the comfort and security of peacetime. My brother has given you as much of the truth as the family wish to give. Warts and horrors stay in our flesh. They only belong to our family. Most of my ancestor, Sir Henri Saint Claire Debussy, is a wonderful story. Just read the book. For now, let us eat and drink… Be merry… Thank God England is at peace. Let us hope the clouds building again over Germany will not require more young men to give up their lives. Or, in the words of someone I heard say: Let the songs begin, the minstrels play and love be the food of life.”
“Was that Shakespeare?” called a voice.
“I have absolutely no idea,” said Barnaby. “Though it does sound rather good.”
The audience burst out into relieved laughter. The brothers stepped down together from the rostrum. The crisis was over for the moment.
“Thank you, Barnaby,” whispered Robert.
“That Yank was getting on my nerves… I have another of my brilliant ideas I will explain when this shindig is over… I think it all turned out well, Robert. Most of the reporters I looked at were scribbling in their little books. The publicity for the book will be generous I should say. Very generous… I’m going to have a stiff drink. Sadly, Robert, you have to sign books. Work indeed is the curse of the working classes. For that little vignette, I give you Oscar Wilde.” Barnaby caught the eye of the American who had questioned his brother, smiled and winked. He had learnt never to make an enemy of the press. Then he walked across to the American for a chat.
* * *
After the launch, Merlin found himself walking down Park Lane from the direction of the Dorchester to his flat. Robert and Freya had been whisked away to a celebratory dinner by the British publisher. Merlin was miffed at not being asked to go with them. Brett and Christopher had left early, Brett to the theatre, Christopher to Clara’s. There was no one else he really knew except Barnaby who had been grinning at him for over an hour. Merlin was not sure what had happened. He knew the great-grandfather story was bunk. He had found out too often that stories told as true were not so. And not just by his eccentric family.
“You and I can walk home,” Barnaby had said when he took his arm in the foyer of the hotel as Merlin was walking out alone.
“Let go of my arm, Barnaby. Those parchments don’t exist. You told everyone a blatant lie.”
“Not here, Merlin. Outside. Walls have ears… Portia was meant to have come or I wouldn’t be on my own.” Barnaby was smiling at Merlin as if he was doing his brother a favour by not pursuing the girl.
“Who is Portia?”
“She’s sweet on Robert.”
“Is he going to marry that American?”
“They live together. People who live together have usually had enough of each other before they get married.”
“I don’t believe you. It’s a mortal sin.”
“This time you can, Merlin. I’m hungry.”
“You can eat on your own.”
“Tut-tut. That’s quite rude. If you let me buy you supper, I will tell you my plan, which will save the family honour.”
“All right.” Merlin felt weary. The whole evening had been most unpleasant the way people were looking at him in the Dorchester knowing he was a St Clair. “There’s a nice Indian restaurant in Soho… Taxi! Taxi! They never stop when I want them. It’s too damn far to walk.”
Barnaby smiled. He liked irritating Merlin.
* * *
The restaurant was small, low-ceilinged in complete contrast to the Dorchester and smelled of rich spices from the East. There was a small bar where they ordered themselves a drink.
“You and I should do this more often, Merlin.”
“Shut up. You know perfectly well why I have been avoiding you. Your behaviour with Tina was despicable.”
Barnaby was about to tell him his behaviour with Esther and his illegitimate daughter wasn’t any better but kept his mouth shut. Instead, he managed to look contrite. Merlin really could be a pompous ass.
Barnaby waited for his brother to speak while he drank his whisky and soda.
“All right. What is this plan of yours, Barnaby?”
“I’m going to have those parchments made up for us. Warts and all.”
“You mean forgery!”
“No, literary licence. There will be no difference between the bloody parchments and the bloody book. We can keep the press on the hook for months before letting it out bit by bit. In the book trade, I’m told, they call it free publicity. Nothing more fun than teasing up the press… I told that Yank he could come down to Purbeck Manor and visit with mother and father. The chap went quite limp… We had better order a bottle of wine.”
“That American reporter was very rude.”
“People prefer being told what they want to hear.”
“Yes, they do… They’ll have to be good forgeries.”
“Good old Merlin, now you are talking sense.”
“It’s a matter of family honour. Such a scandal would kill father. Will you promise me one thing, Barnaby? Never again to be alone with Tina Brigandshaw.”
“Have you seen her lately? She’s put on weight and lost her oomph. She’s thirty. It’s all behind me with Tina.”
“Has she really gone off?”
“They all do in the end. Why men of your age like to go out with young girls. Tina will be all right. She’s now a matron. Four kids… Now, let me tell you about the new Marlowe musical I’m backing. You’re still out of the share market, Merlin?”
“Never went back after the war.”
“Good. I’m out. Completely. If you ask me the stock markets are going to crash. There is going to be another war with Germany.”
“Nonsense.”
Merlin to his great surprise found he was now enjoying himself. His brother always cut to the chase.
“Are you going to follow through with that invitation to the American?” Merlin asked as they sat down at their table.
“Of course not. But he doesn’t know that. By the time he works it out, he’ll be back in America boasting about my invitation to visit a real-life lord and his lady in their castle.”
“But we don’t have a castle any more.”
“We will have by the time he gets back to America. I also promised to give him copies of the parchments if the family ever changed their minds and decided to go to the press. That man is going to be our authenticity for the forgeries.”
“That is wicked, Barnaby.”
“Rather nice don’t you think seeing he brought up the subject. I’m going to keep leaking him the parchments one after the other. I’ll tell him they are copies of course. That the originals would never survive the long journey to America. He’ll stick like a fly to flypaper.”
“You’d better get Robert to write the parchments.”
“Whoever else. Then he can write a brilliant ‘tell-all’ sequel to Holy Knight.”
“You mean pull their legs all over again?”
“Exactly.”
* * *
On the last Saturday of the month, the curtain fell for the last time on Happy Times. Christopher Marlowe’s musical that he had written with the help of Danny Hill for Brett Kentrich had
run for three and a half years at the Aldwych. Everyone was at the last night, except Harry Brigandshaw who had left written instructions for the aftershow party before flying off with Ignatius Bowes-Lyon earlier in the month to fly down Africa in the hybrid seaplane that could also come down safely on land. Once the patrons had left the theatre, the cast, friends of the cast, theatre personnel down to the doorman were to come back to the empty theatre with the curtain up for the party catered at Harry’s expense by the Savoy Hotel. Oscar Fleming, the impresario who had staged the musical with Harry’s money, was to read a message from Harry in his absence thanking everyone for the success of what had become, the previous month, the longest running show on the West End stage. The musical, according to Oscar Fleming’s calculations, had run without a break every night except Sundays for twelve hundred and seventy-seven performances including the Saturday afternoon matinee.
After the ninth curtain call, Oscar Fleming called it quits, saying to the cast there was nothing worse than milking it to find the last call facing the backs of the audience as they walked away up the aisles. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over the entire cast. Everyone looked miserable. As if a living being had just died right in front of them.
Christopher watched with Danny Hill from the wings, his feelings mixed. Happy Times was closing but A Walk in the Woods would open in the same theatre at the end of October. The butterflies in his stomach were not for the end but for what the public would think of his new beginning in a month’s time… Along with the critics.
From Danny’s vantage place in the wings, he could look through at a section of the theatre where the patrons were still not getting up to leave.
“They are not going, Christopher. Everyone I can see through here is still facing the stage even though the lights have come up.” Danny stopped looking offstage to look at the cast. “Now look at that. Am I wrong or is Brett crying?”
“She’s crying.”
“Women… Do you hear that? Oh, my word. Listen to that. They are yelling for the writer… Fleming’s coming over to us. Grinning like a Cheshire cat. That man never smiles. Or not when I’m around… Good evening, Mr Fleming.”