by Peter Rimmer
* * *
They walked for two hours in the summer evening, father and sons. Taking the same path on the same land the family had owned for centuries. Looking at hills and oak trees with the eyes given them, like the land, by their ancestors. They talked little and only about the nature that flourished all around them. Three men content with life, enjoying each other’s company and not having to talk.
At the top of one hill, they looked back towards the village of Corfe Castle seven miles away. Behind the village that had nestled at the bottom of the hill for all the same centuries, they could see the ruins of Corfe Castle where it had all begun. Where the English St Clairs had morphed from the French Saint Claire… No one spoke as they looked.
Then they walked back to Purbeck Manor in the soft gloaming, even the dogs silent, their tongues hanging loose to let them perspire from the evening’s exertion of fruitlessly chasing rabbits that always bolted back into their warrens.
When they reached the Manor house all the windows were still open. Only the big Gothic door had been closed. There was another legend in the family that said that if the great doors stayed open after the sun had set, the sun would also set on the St Clair dynasty. The sun, as Lord St Clair said, as they walked through the small side door cut into the old oak, that would set that night behind on Purbeck Manor but never set on the British Empire, God save the King.
When Barnaby heard his father go off on that one, he was not sure if the old man was being serious or pulling their legs. Like when he appeared to lose his memory when it suited him: when father liked to become the vague old man living in the clouds and giving exotic names to his pigs.
* * *
Later in the vaulted dining room that was only now used on special occasions, Freya was happy to see the piglets for the first time, cooking over the fire on the spit looking more like pork than pig. Only the one big, walk-in fireplace had a fire burning and just enough to roast the sides of the suckling pigs. Freya was told Mrs Mason had sat on the comfortable bench inside the fireplace for two hours with a long silver basting ladle and one of His Lordship’s bottles of brown sherry that Lady St Clair had brought earlier to Mrs Mason in the kitchen where the rest of the night’s feast was being prepared… Roast potatoes in the wood-fired oven cooked in lard… Roast chestnuts mixed with almonds and walnuts, all from the estate, chopped together into a paste and baked the size of dumplings in the same oven… Five vegetables from the garden… Rhubarb batter encrusted with brown sugar for dessert, which Mrs Mason knew was Barnaby’s favourite when he was still a child… Apple sauce with cloves and brown sugar… A rich sage and onion sauce made with herbs from the garden… Gravy placed in pewter gravy boats and left standing near the fire to keep warm, collected from Mrs Mason’s long basting, the juices flowing from the suckling pigs into catch-trays, the fire in the middle of the two suckling pigs that Mrs Mason had turned and basted as she drank down the bottle of sherry, throwing the last of the sherry over the pork, the crackling hard, thin and richly brown, just the way Barnaby liked his crackling, Freya was told by Lady St Clair as she sat down to dinner.
On the long black oak table pitted with age, were their platters, the trenches waiting for the food, while next to the trenches had been placed a single knife and fork. At each place setting a wine glass emblazoned with the family crest. The bottles of rich red French wine waiting open along the table where the family now sat away from the heat of the fire, the bottles having been opened to let the wine breathe before the men went off to walk the ancestral fields.
Freya had never seen anything quite so feudal. So old. So traditional. So beautiful. Quietly, as she sat at the table where the top was six inches thick all the way down to the distant end of the room where she was told in times gone by the servants sat below the salt, Freya pinched herself to make sure it was all real, that she, Freya Taylor from Denver, Colorado was now part of all this. That the child inside of her was a product of so much history.
Looking across at Mrs Mason on her bench inside the biggest fireplace she had ever seen in her life, Freya was sure the old cook was as tight as a tick. Robert had gone over to carve the pigs. Barnaby had poured wine into the crested wine glasses and taken one brimming over to Mrs Mason who looked as if she was about to go to sleep, her work done. As Freya watched, little Mavis brought in all the trimmings of the meal from the kitchen on a trolley that looked as if it had come out of the ark, the smell wafting into the great hall where the high windows were wide open to the last of the day’s twilight, the birds outside singing an evensong.
As Freya tried to take it all in, her silent wish was for her mother and father to be with her at the table.
Lord St Clair stood up, wine glass in hand.
“I give you the King, ladies and gentlemen. The King, God bless him.”
Everyone stood up. Freya not sure what to do until she remembered the St Clair child in her belly, awkwardly got up with the rest, raising her own glass to the King with the others, drinking the toast to the King of England.
Then she sat down slightly bemused as Robert and Barnaby waited on the rest of them, making her evening in the great dining hall just that much more bizarre.
By the time the pork and array of side dishes had been eaten into, and the rhubarb batter came out from the kitchen, Freya looked across and saw that Mrs Mason was fast asleep stretched out on the bench.
“Why didn’t she eat?” Freya asked Barnaby.
“She nibbles when she cooks. Just look at the size of her for goodness’ sake. The worst sin for a cook is to be thin… Are you enjoying yourself?”
“More than you can imagine. And we don’t have to worry again about Max Pearl and those damn parchments.”
“More wine, Freya?” said Lord St Clair.
“I’ll be tiddly.”
“So will we all. That’s the whole idea. We St Clairs have been some of the best trenchermen in history. We love good food and good wine.”
“And good women,” said Robert looking at his wife.
“Robert, you are tight.”
“Of course I am… That food really was good. The wine perfect.”
* * *
Arm in arm they made their way out of the dining room as everyone said good night. Mrs Mason was still asleep on her bench. Someone had placed a blanket over her despite the summer night. The windows in the house were still all wide open.
When they reached Robert’s second-floor bedroom where they were sleeping together as man and wife in the single bed that had been Robert’s for most of his life, the owls were calling from the woods. There were three owls Freya could hear calling intermittently. A dog-fox barked from somewhere behind the cowshed. There was not a breath of wind.
After they climbed onto the bed and hugged each other they fell asleep.
The moon came into the room later but neither woke up.
* * *
The sun woke Freya. It was morning. The birds were singing. Pulling her one arm out from under Robert gently so he would not be woken, Freya got up to look out of the open window. Her arm was fast asleep, full of pins and needles. The view out to the hills over oak and elm trees was just as beautiful as the view from the cottage outside Denver.
“I’m happy,” she said aloud. “I’m truly happy.”
“Now that is nice to hear, Mrs St Clair… Come back to bed.”
When she was safely back in the small bed, they made love.
Only afterwards did they both go back to sleep in each other’s arms.
* * *
Late in the afternoon, they all heard the engine of the Bentley coming to them from up on the high road of the Purbeck Hills. The car was going fast, the sound echoing across the silent valley. There was not a breath of wind.
“Must be Merlin,” said Barnaby. “Why’s he driving so fast?”
“To impress someone,” said Robert. “Come on. If we walk fast, we’ll meet them in the driveway. We can all take the Rolls to Corfe Castle. I want to get this over wit
h once and for all.”
Freya was clutching a bunch of wild flowers she had picked on her walk as they hurried along despite Robert’s prosthetic foot.
* * *
When they reached the terrace, the Gothic doors were wide open again. Lady St Clair had one hand on the waist-high balustrade. The black Bentley 3 Litre was coming up the long drive between the trees. Lord St Clair was standing next to his wife waiting to greet his eldest surviving son. Only Mrs Mason was absent from the terrace to meet the current heir to the title and the estate. The hood was down. The woman in the passenger seat was half out of her seat trying to get a good look at Purbeck Manor for the first time.
“She’s very pretty,” said Lord St Clair, smiling.
“She’s very young,” said Lady St Clair.
“No point in marrying a woman your own age when you want to start a family at the age of forty-four.”
The car was coming to a halt in front of the steps that led up to the terrace and the gaping doors of the Manor house. The young woman was on the side of the car nearest to the terrace. She was looking straight at Lady St Clair.
“She looks familiar,” said Lady St Clair.
“Never been down here before,” said Lord St Clair. “I’d have remembered by Jove.”
“What’s the matter, Freya?” said Lady St Clair. Robert and Freya had moved nearer to the balustrade to get a better look at the passenger.
Freya had her right hand over her mouth. Robert had his eyes wide open. From behind Lady St Clair who was racking her brains to remember where she had seen that face before, Barnaby gave out a giggle. The car engine was turned off. Merlin took off his goggles and waved before getting out of the car. The woman waited for Merlin to come round to open her door before she prepared to step out. Lady St Clair saw she was very tall and slim. Like a calf. Her skin was unblemished. Smooth and soft white with a tint of fresh rose blushed on both cheeks.
“She’s very young,” Lady St Clair repeated as the woman looked up at her and smiled. The eyes that looked at Lady St Clair were of different colours, the one darker than the other.
Small feet crunched on the gravel as Merlin took the woman’s hand. Lady St Clair had never seen her son look at a woman in such a way. Usually, Merlin was aloof. Untouched by anything around him. Himself all the time. The couple was coming up the steps towards her, past the earthen flower urns with the red petunias. Lady St Clair was now staring at the girl.
‘She’s only a child,’ thought Lady St Clair. ‘What on earth is Merlin thinking marrying a child?’ From a broad smile of welcome, Lady St Clair looked with hostility at the girl and her son.
“Mother,” said Merlin still smiling broadly, enjoying himself. “This is the surprise I promised you. Genevieve, say hello to your grandmother. Mother and father, I want to introduce my daughter, Genevieve. Genevieve already knows Uncles Robert and Barnaby and Aunty Freya.” Merlin with the monocle over his dark eye was grinning maliciously, enjoying everyone else’s discomfort. Proudly, he watched his daughter step forward.
“Hello, grandmother. How are you?”
Just in front of Lady St Clair, Genevieve curtsied as she had been taught at the Central School.
“Now I know why you look so familiar. I have old photographs of my mother inside, just like you… Come here, child… How old are you?”
“Well, father tells the school I’m seventeen. But I’m fifteen.”
“Which school, child?”
“The Central School of Speech and Drama at the Royal Albert Hall. I’m going to be an actress.”
“The different coloured eyes would have given it away,” said Lord St Clair who was chuckling with good humour now he knew what was going on. “Let’s pretend you are seventeen and go inside for a glass of brown sherry. Welcome to my home. Where is your mother?”
“My mother never travels.”
“No, I suppose not. Why we have never seen you or her before at Purbeck Manor. Well, Merlin, this is a surprise.”
“My mother is not married to my father. She told me not to come here. That you would be annoyed with my dad. Ashamed of me. But I still wanted to come. You see however it all happened you are still my grandparents.” Genevieve gave the old pair her most delicious smile, the one that always got her, her own way from the age of five.
Freya was looking at the girl with genuine admiration. She thought with a few more words, Genevieve would have them all in tears.
“You promise, grandmother, not to be mad at my father or I’d never forgive myself insisting him bring me to meet you both.”
“Of course we won’t. Of course we won’t. I was looking forward to a good surprise. Maybe sherry is not such a good idea. You must be hungry, Genevieve after such a long journey. Mrs Mason isn’t feeling so well today. You and I will go into the kitchen together and see what we can find. Do you like cold pork with apple sauce? Barnaby always liked cold roast potatoes. Now come on into the house. All of you. Later, Merlin, you and I are going to have a long talk. In private. I want everything out in the open. Genevieve must have been born during the war when you were in France. Terrible times have stranger consequences. What may seem wrong now was right then when so many of our men were dying.”
“Isn’t she just lovely?” said Merlin.
“Yes, she is. Very lovely… Come here, child.”
Formally, and on both cheeks, Lady St Clair welcomed her grandchild to Purbeck Manor. Then they all trooped inside through the open Gothic doors.
With grandfather and grandmother leading the way in front of them, Genevieve gave her father a quick wink.
Then Genevieve swept into the house as if to the Manor born.
* * *
While Genevieve was getting around her grandparents, four miles away, on the banks of the stream that ran along the path from Corfe Castle to Purbeck Manor, Tina Brigandshaw was reading her second book on maritime law. She had brought her five children down to the railway cottage to stay with her parents. To make some sense out of her new life as a director of Colonial Shipping, the holding company of the Castle shipping line owning the SS Corfe Castle that plied to and from Africa. Harry Brigandshaw named it for Lucinda St Clair’s family before Lucinda was shot dead by Fishy Braithwaite at Salisbury station in Rhodesia, making Harry a widower. Tina’s life had more than one connection to the barons of Purbeck.
For weeks, Percy Grainger had been coming of an evening to the house in Berkeley Square to explain the ramifications of Colonial Shipping that Tina now knew she would inherit. The chances of Harry being found, after disappearing with his aircraft over the African bush a year ago, were small. After another year, the courts would rule him dead with Tina the new owner and all the consequences of death duties, something Tina had never heard of in her life before.
* * *
“You’ll have to sell thirty per cent of your holding to pay death duty,” Percy Grainger had warned her on his first visit to the townhouse on Berkeley Square. “The best way will be to sell the Castle shipping line to someone like Nicholas Kayser, of Kayser and Irvine, and retain the customs clearing and confirming side of the business.”
“What is the confirming side?”
“You don’t have to know, Mrs Brigandshaw.”
“Oh, but I do. I have four of Harry’s children to think about. Soon to be five. I am now, thanks to you, a director of the holding company, I think you called it.”
“But you know nothing about boats and shipping cargo.”
“Then educate me.”
“Why, Mrs Brigandshaw? You and your children will still be rich.”
“By the time the children are grown up there won’t be a company for them to go into if I don’t do something now.”
“You don’t even have a formal education.”
“You should have met my tutor in Johannesburg, Miss Pinforth. She knocked more sense into me than any school. I can read, write and do arithmetic. The last is rusty. Fact is, it was never very good. Mostly we women leave adding
up and making money to our men while we bring up the children and nurture their small brains that one day will be big… Or so we hope.”
“What do you want me to do, Mrs Brigandshaw?”
“Educate me. Answer my stupid questions until I make some sense. I want books to read. Books on ships. Books on trade. A book, definitely on British death duty tax. On income tax and any other damn tax that takes my husband’s money away from our children. If I want to give away our money to charity, I’ll give it away myself. Not some inefficient government.”
“I have a company to run, Mrs Brigandshaw. A big company. My job and your late husband’s.”
“You have to eat at night. Come to dinner twice a week. Bring your wife. Tell her to bring her knitting. I will not let him down.”
“So you think Mr Brigandshaw’s dead?”
“Of course he’s dead, dammit. Don’t you start getting my hopes up. He’s dead, get it, Harry’s dead. Dead as mutton.”
Tina remembered the conversation almost a year ago word for word. Now Keppel Howland was stirring up her hope with another expedition to find Harry.
That damn reporter from The Daily Mail had heard something in America of all places and wanted her confirmation. Horatio Wakefield had phoned her three times. Why people could not leave her alone with her misery she had no idea.
The company driver had brought her down to Dorset. In the company Rolls-Royce that had previously been allocated to Harry and was now at her disposal. It was the only part of the trip with the children and the nurses that had made her smile. At her father’s expression as she stepped out of the car at Corfe Castle station where he still worked as stationmaster, clerk, ticket seller and porter, all rolled into one. For the one train a day on its way to Swanage from London and back again. Even Ivy and Molly had let out a giggle.