To the Manor Born

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To the Manor Born Page 38

by Peter Rimmer


  * * *

  “It’ll be a grand adventure, Ralph. Look, this office of yours is all very nice. I’m impressed. Ten staff in just over a year. But we owe it to Harry. I think I have a newspaper interested in sponsoring the expedition.”

  “Why don’t you try Glen Hamilton in Denver? He knew Harry during the war. Helped to bring me to Rebecca thanks to Harry and his brother-in-law, Robert St Clair. But you don’t understand about me, old friend. I’m flattered you came all this way with your proposition but I’m in love. I’m converting to Judaism which is a wonderful religion full of so much tradition. Then we will marry, I and my Rebecca. Look, why don’t I ask Rebecca to lay another place at the table tonight where I’m going to dinner? The old man’s a bit frightening the first time you meet him. But I like him despite everything. He’ll remind you of one of those African eagles we saw on our safari. He has a nose like a predator’s beak. He’s a bit nostalgic on England despite his time in America. You’ll have dinner with us and meet Rebecca. Then you’ll understand. Wonderful seeing you, old boy. You’ll stay in the flat of course. Where’s your luggage? There’s a pull-out couch in the lounge. My flat is pretty basic but you won’t have to pay for a hotel. Just down from Oxford, you’ll be skint. Do you remember how skint we were when we came back from Africa? Why don’t I phone Glen Hamilton and put the story to him? He’s chief editor of The Denver Telegraph. His assistant is going to marry Robert St Clair and we’ve promised to fly to Denver when they get married. The new airliners are quite safe. The least Rebecca and I can do to repay Freya and Robert if Rebecca’s father will let her go on our own. Freya, that’s Robert’s wife to be, gave Rebecca my letter when the old man was burning my mail. People travel long distances in America and think nothing of it. You really think Harry Brigandshaw could still be alive after all this time?”

  “Stanley found Livingstone in the middle of nowhere. Livingstone had been gone longer when Stanley pronounced some of the most famous few words in history: ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume’.”

  “You always were a man who got what he wanted. I wish you the best of luck. Just count me out this time. Your old schoolmate and fellow soldier is going to be a happily married man. Domesticated with lots of children, all the girls looking just like Rebecca. You’ll love her. She’s absolutely gorgeous. You’ll see.”

  “I hope you haven’t told his wife you are going to look for Harry. She must be going through enough as it is without getting up false hopes. Yes, it’ll make a good story for the press. Wouldn’t surprise me if Hamilton didn’t sponsor the whole expedition lock, stock and barrel. Do you remember that dinner party we both attended in Berkeley Square? I rather think you were bowled over by his wife that night the way you were looking at her like a lovesick calf. Good-looking girl is Mrs Brigandshaw. She must be going through hell. Just had Harry’s posthumous baby in July according to the newspapers who won’t leave her alone. Oh well. The price of being married to a famous man, I suppose. Tina won’t mind your expedition if you find him. You can be sure of that, Keppel.”

  “No, I haven’t approached the family or the company. I first wanted to talk to you, Ralph. We go back a long way. Couldn’t think of anyone better by my side in unfriendly country. They say the bush in the Belgian Congo is thicker than anything we saw in Rhodesia. Why a plane going down in the trees could never be seen from the air. The canopy would literally swallow it up… You think this Glen Hamilton will pay my expenses in total, do you? That would be nice. After coming out here I don’t have a penny. Put all I had into the boat trip over. Third class, of course.”

  “We can only ask him… Here’s my address and the spare key. I keep the spare in the drawer of my office desk. In case I lock myself out of my flat… Get a cab. Nothing is formal on the nights I eat with the Rosenzweigs. I’ll be home at six. We’ll take a cab to Abercrombie Place. Rebecca will love to meet you. Spoken to her of our times together many times. And you’re right, Keppel. We go back a long way. You can’t make new old friends I read once in a magazine article on friendship. Now, be off. I have to work. Rosie Prescott outside keeps me on my toes. Did you see my Uncle Wallace before you came across the pond?”

  “He wants to know when he can retire into the country.”

  “That’s another story. Poor old Uncle Wallace. I think Rebecca and I are going to stay in America. We like the place. Her father thinks there is going to be another war in Europe. I’ve had quite enough of war in my life. I often think of our old-school chum Malcolm Scott. Especially when I realise how happy I am with Rebecca. A splinter from the shell that killed Malcolm took the little finger off my left hand. You remember that. You were there. We are both lucky to be alive. No more wars for me… I’m soon going to become a married man.”

  Grinning at each other they shook hands vigorously for the second time. Keppel picked up the key and left. He was already looking forward to the supper. He was hungry.

  * * *

  When Ralph Madgwick got home after work, he found the wedding invitation from Denver in the mailbox. The wedding of Robert St Clair and Freya Taylor was in a week’s time. The invitation was the usual Mr and Mrs Taylor request. Ralph doubted any of the friends and family had time to fly over from England. Certainly not Lord and Lady St Clair who never left Dorset, let alone flew in aeroplanes. Not wishing to think badly of his friends who had made his beautiful life possible, he put the speed of the wedding down to compulsion. With the strange ways of artists who never seemed to do things like the rest of them.

  Pushing the open invitation back in his pocket with the envelope, Ralph walked up the three flights of stairs to his flat and let himself in. Keppel Howland was fast asleep on the pulled-out couch. The man was incredible. During the war, Ralph remembered Keppel could sleep through a full bombardment whichever way the shells were flying.

  Ralph prodded his friend awake.

  “Where the hell am I?”

  “New York, old boy. Glen Hamilton likes your idea. He’s sending you an air ticket. Or rather the name of the New York travel agent where you can pick up the ticket. Typical of Americans. They don’t mess around here. They like an idea, they do it. None of all that British thinking in circles and finding someone else has pinched the idea. We can all go together. The wedding’s next week in Denver, courtesy of an invitation I found downstairs in my mailbox. Have a quick bath and we’ll go. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “The food is always good. Rebecca’s a marvellous cook.”

  “Is there anything wrong with this girl?”

  “Not a thing.”

  * * *

  When they got into the lift an hour later at Abercrombie Place, it was necessary to push their way around two trolleys. On the trolleys were silver domes over silver salvers. The smell of the food was overpowering making Keppel Howland feel quite weak from hunger. The last time he had eaten was on the ship early that morning before disembarkation. Keppel was always hungry and never put on weight, however much he fed himself.

  “Someone having a party?” he said to the two men dressed as waiters who were attending the trolleys, standing aloof with their backs against the long mirror on the wall of the lift.

  “That’ll be the Marchioness of Ravenhurst,” said Ralph. “They entertain every week in the flat above Rebecca’s.”

  “Who’s the Marquess of Ravenhurst? Never heard of him… Does Rebecca serve snacks before the meal?”

  “Of course she does, Keppel. Why do you imagine I want to marry her?”

  The waiters kept their noses in the air and said not a word. In a moment of mischief, Keppel thought of looking under the domes to see what His Lordship’s guests were going to eat. Then the lift door opened and the moment was lost, the door to Sir Jacob Rosenzweig’s apartment was opening and a girl prettier than a painting was smiling at his friend Ralph Madgwick.

  “May I present my old school chum, Mr Keppel Howland…? Miss Rebecca Rosenzweig.”

  “You don’t have to be so
formal, darling,” said the girl.

  “Things must be done right.”

  The girl had dark hair that curled around her ears. Smouldering, brown eyes that only fleetingly looked at Keppel before slaking her thirst on his friend. She had a husky voice that caught in the lower cadence that shouted out her sexuality. No wonder, he thought, his friend Ralph was so besotted.

  The father, a tall, thin man ten years older than Keppel had expected, was waiting for them in the lounge with an expression that spoke out of love and fear. The old man only had eyes for his daughter. Ralph Madgwick only had eyes for Rebecca. It made Keppel jealous of the girl, having so much love coming her way. The old man’s eyes looked once briefly at Ralph. Keppel knew the religious story from before he had left England… Jews not marrying Gentiles… The look Keppel saw had nothing to do with religion. The old bastard was jealous. Jealous of his own daughter being in love.

  Keppel shook the old man’s clawed hand in a firm grip and the atmosphere in the room went back to normal. The two men of differing age looked at each other. Both understood.

  “So you went through the war with Ralph?”

  “The other school friend was killed. There were three of us.”

  Keppel had no idea why he brought up Malcolm Scott. The old man made him nervous.

  “I’m sorry. Let us all pray in whichever church we choose to prevent another war. My people in Berlin send me bad news. There is fear among our people.”

  “The doomsayers, sir. There won’t be a war. The stock market will go on up. Modern science will enable everyone. Material want will be dispatched from the world. Educated men will again have the time to listen to music. To read all the books. Go to the plays. Be civilised. The ancient Greek Empire. Plato and Socrates. The Philosopher King. Rome before the fall. Before the barbarians.”

  Keppel knew he was gabbling. The old man looked at him and smiled, the smile changing the countenance of his face. He definitely understood. Keppel smiled. His friend Ralph Madgwick was going to be lucky to have this man for a father-in-law.

  * * *

  Later on, standing out on the balcony in the stifling heat of July looking back over the lights of New York between the buildings, they could hear the party going on in the apartment above. Keppel made out the well-bred English accent of the Marquess of Ravenhurst, or so he thought. Everyone else on the balcony above was speaking American.

  Standing slightly apart from the invisible triangle that glued the girl to Ralph and her father, Keppel hoped Ralph was right. That this Glen Hamilton would pay for him to go back to Africa… Like so many other things in his past, his fate was in the lap of the gods. With a drink in one hand, Keppel went on munching the snacks. At that moment he felt much older than his twenty-eight years. If there was going to be another war he was still young enough to fight. Be the first to go. A trained soldier experienced in battle. Despite the heat, Keppel shuddered, unseen by the others in the triangle. Maybe this time, like Harry Brigandshaw, he was not going to be so lucky.

  * * *

  Then they all trooped into the dining room for supper… Keppel’s mind far away in Africa hoped Alfred was still to be found. The black man who had made the morning fire in front of their eyrie above the Zambezi valley, two thousand feet up on top of the Zambezi escarpment. Tembo would know where he was. Maybe Tembo, the black foreman on Elephant Walk, would come with them as well. Tembo even spoke English. Down below in the valley in the memory of his mind Keppel could hear the fish eagles calling to each other.

  The food now in his mouth was delicious. The girl, indeed, was a good cook. Their children would be lucky. Love and good food. Perfect… Again Keppel Howland felt momentarily jealous of his old friend.

  * * *

  While Keppel Howland was listening to the voice of John Lacey and trying to imagine what he looked like, Glen Hamilton was sitting down to dinner in the Cattlemen’s Steak House with Robert St Clair and Freya Taylor. His wife was joining them from the suburbs leaving the two children with their babysitter, who was eighteen and usually capable of keeping order.

  For Glen Hamilton, the perfect part of running a daily newspaper was keeping up circulation and with it the price of advertising. The best-written newspaper was no good if it failed to make a profit. Which was why Glen had started Freya writing her Juliet column which she had carried on writing from England.

  When Ralph Madgwick had phoned him from New York, the idea of mounting a Henry Morton Stanley expedition to find a modern-day David Livingstone had sparked his journalistic and business imagination. It was more than fifty years since the New York Herald had sent Stanley into the African jungle after Livingstone, reaping a fortune from the scoop in the process. Not to mention a place in history. With all the newspaper publicity given to Harry Brigandshaw’s disappearance, Glen’s old wartime friend was as well known to the public as Doctor Livingstone had been fifty years and more before. Ralph Madgwick had said on the phone that the young man who wished to mount an expedition to find Harry had a first in English literature. Now Robert St Clair had offered to put up money to look for his brother-in-law.

  “The last place we know Harry to be alive is Khartoum,” said Glen. “They can start at Khartoum and work their way down Africa. There must be places on the way they can send reports back to Denver.”

  “Go the other way,” said Robert. “If I had two feet I’d go with them and write a book on the way. They must start from Elephant Walk and work up Africa. Harry went down somewhere in between. He could have been nearly home for all we know. Keppel Howland will need black men he can trust. Keppel needs Tembo. He’ll know how to get through the bush better than anyone with a motive other than money. They can mount the expedition in Rhodesia. The biggest cost will be sending Keppel Howland there. Horses. They’ll need good, salted horses.”

  “What on earth is a salted horse?” asked Freya.

  “One that has been bitten by the tsetse fly and survived… Here comes Samantha. Now we can order the food. Freya needs feeding in her condition.”

  “You don’t have to broadcast to the whole world, dear Robert. This is the first time I’m glad you only have one foot… Do we really think this man can keep himself alive in the jungle with all those wild animals? Lions and tigers. The thought frightens me to death.”

  “Lions and leopards in Africa. The tigers live in Asia.”

  “When one of them eats you it doesn’t make much difference which one.”

  * * *

  Glen Hamilton remembered the first link in the chain that had now brought them together at the Cattlemen. Merlin St Clair. Twelve years ago in 1917, Merlin and Glen had met in France when Glen was a war correspondent with the honorary rank of captain in the American army. Both had leave due to them over Christmas. Glen had been invited to Purbeck Manor to spend Christmas. Merlin’s ulterior motive had been to introduce him to Robert who had written a historical novel. The Christmas party, Glen also remembered, had included Harry Brigandshaw on leave from the Royal Flying Corps. Harry had been up at Oxford with Robert some years before the war. Even to an outsider, it was clear to Glen that Lucinda St Clair was in love with Harry Brigandshaw. Later Glen had taken Keeper of the Legend back to America and shown the manuscript to Max Pearl who had published Robert’s first book. Robert had visited with Glen in Denver when the book was launched in America where he met Freya Taylor for the first time. When Harry and Lucinda had been married in 1919 with a second wedding planned for Rhodesia, Harry had invited Glen to Elephant Walk. All of them had sailed on the SS King Emperor. The intention had been to go on safari. When Lucinda was shot dead by Mervyn Braithwaite at Salisbury railway station, Glen had gone back to America after a brief stay on Elephant Walk where he had met the black man they called Tembo. Glen remembered him as a man who hated the patronage of the English which strangely clashed with his strong bond with Harry Brigandshaw. The two men were friends, not master and servant. They had grown up together.

  * * *

  “You ar
e right, Robert,” said Glen as his wife joined them at the table. He and Robert had both stood up to greet Samantha. “Tembo will be perfect if he is prepared to go and look for Harry… How are the kids?”

  “All good. I came in a bit earlier to try on my dress for the wedding. Now, what’s all this about Glen?”

  “We are mounting an expedition on horseback to find Harry Brigandshaw.”

  “Are you going, Glen?”

  “Sit down, darling. Sit down. We have a young friend of Harry’s out from England who wants to go and find him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’ll be at the wedding. With Ralph Madgwick and hopefully Rebecca.”

  * * *

  There had been a time when Freya Taylor thought she was going to marry Glen Hamilton. Men often married their secretaries and assistants. The girl in the office saw more of the man than a wife. As Glen’s personal assistant they had grown to know and like each other. Then Samantha had found Glen. She was right for him. A home-girl to bring up a family without another ambition in life to upset the tranquillity. The joy of cooking for a family and watching them grow up happy. Small fingers in the empty bowl after the batter was dropped in the frying pan. Small mouths licking small fingers with sweet, uncooked batter. Neither had ever been jealous of the other’s part in Glen’s life. They liked each other. Had become friends.

  Freya listened to Samantha talking enthusiastically about her children and wondered if she herself would be a good mother. The doctor had told Freya she was nine weeks pregnant. Which had prompted the wedding. In a hurry. Only then did having children take on a life of its own. They had been happy, variously living with each other, keeping their own homes. Neither was the kind of person who plunged deeply into love. They were content with each other. With their lives. Once, when they had discussed getting married, both had said there was no point without children. Freya had been careless before and doubted she was able to fall pregnant. They had that night agreed to leave it in the lap of the gods. Let nature take its course. If she fell pregnant they would get married immediately. Were it not for the stigma of being pregnant at her own wedding, she would have asked Samantha what it was like to have children.

 

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