by Peter Rimmer
For a long time, Ralph stared out of the bedroom window on the second floor of the hotel trying to make up his mind about nothing. There was nothing to make up his mind about. He had nothing. He had no alternative. He had to live somewhere… Best of all, Africa was far enough away not to remind him of Rebecca. He would let the future take care of itself. The chances for Rhodesia were the same as the rest of the world. Some even thought England would be back in a war. Ralph had had enough of war. He never wanted to be part of another one. If Europe started to blow itself to pieces again, a small round hut in the middle of Africa was the place to be. Far enough away for Ralph never to be involved… America would have been all right but that part of his life was over. By now Ralph had begun to hate his Uncle Wallace and Sir Jacob Rosenzweig.
Making up his mind, Ralph decided to let the spruits and rivers go down. Then he would drive the old car back to Elephant Walk… Beggars could not be choosers. He was lucky to have anything at all… Maybe later if he liked it he would get a farm of his own like Jim Bowman… Then Ralph laughed aloud at what it might’ve been. There was, he told himself, nothing worse than working in the City of London. Catching the eight-ten train from Ashtead station to Waterloo for forty years every day of his life. Living in the suburbs however much money he would have made out of Madgwick and Madgwick. However big his suburban house with the tennis court, the croquet lawn and neighbours all around. And life in New York would not have been any much different… Except for Rebecca which set him off again thinking in circles.
* * *
Downstairs in the hotel, Ralph found himself a small table in the dining room and ate himself a good dinner. Outside the rain had stopped. He was feeling better. There was nothing better for a man than to make up his mind he told himself firmly. At least he spoke enough Shona which he had learnt from Alfred and from the trip with Keppel up the lakes. He had even learnt a few words of Chinyanga from the black man they had picked up on the journey who had called himself Parsons. Even a few words of Swahili from the stoker on the steamboat. The blacks who worked the tobacco lands would be able to understand what he said. Tembo would soon be back after helping the Arab captain to trade for ivory. Tembo would show him what to do. Tinus had become a young friend who said Alfred would one day come back to Elephant Walk with three wives. Ralph had a new family. The loneliness he now felt on his own would go away. The porters on the trip were his friends and they would be back with money enough to buy themselves wives in the African tradition. He would never marry himself, of that he was certain without Rebecca. Instead, he would watch other people’s children grow up. Paula and Doris, Tinus’s young sisters, home from school at weekends. They would make him laugh. He would get himself a cat. A dog: a Rhodesian ridgeback of his own to add to the pack on Elephant Walk… In the end he would be happy. Surely, in the end, he would be happy. Pain like the one he knew from the war which killed Malcolm Scott right in front of him slowly faded from the mind. His old school friend was now young in his mind not smashed by the shell that had cut off Ralph’s small finger clean as a whistle.
Signing the bill against his room number, Ralph walked from the dining room into the bar to talk to his newly made friends. They were a lively lot. And friendly to a stranger all alone… After all they, were British. And far from home. They all needed each other to survive. Of one thing Ralph was certain: Harry Brigandshaw was dead. Lost in the great, empty, vastness of Africa.
15
May to August 1930 – Temptations and Despair
By the end of May, Tina Brigandshaw was at the end of her tether. In four months’ time, they were going to sell her up when Harry was legally declared dead by the court. The shares in Colonial Shipping. The portfolio of shares. The house in Berkeley Square. Elephant Walk. Everything Harry had owned. To pay estate duty to the British government. The amount now owing was more than the current value of all the assets in Harry’s estate. Percy Grainger was denying he stopped Tina selling shares before the crash. He had merely advised her of the soundness of Colonial Shipping with no mention of what it would do to the public’s and institutions’ confidence in the stock price if the controlling shareholder began selling large quantities of her shares. The managing director of Colonial Shipping now said it was her decision as Harry’s sole heir to do as she wished. That there was no dispute as to her ownership of her late husband’s assets even if he had not left a will. She was his next of kin. The law was clear on that matter. Percy Grainger said all he was doing was trying to help the widow. The continuing fall in share prices around the world was out of his control and nothing to do with him. Mrs Brigandshaw was not the only person who was unfortunate. Many pensioners who relied on their dividends would be destitute when companies that had been making money before the crash began to lose money and not pay dividends: the inference, Colonial Shipping was not going to make a profit…They were all in the same boat.
No one wanted to have anything to do with her. Except for Barnaby they all had enough financial problems of their own. The agreement between what turned out now to be her solicitors and the Department of Inland Revenue was a valid legal document. A small man in a small government office asked her, that if the share price had gone up instead of down, would they have been able to claim the agreement invalid and demand from Mrs Brigandshaw a vastly increased amount of death duty. They were sorry. They had an agreement which she had signed when her adviser Mr Grainger pointed out their generosity at fixing the date on which her late husband’s shares would be valued. Ignorance on behalf of the widow had no point in law. Or everyone would change their minds after the event if it suited them. The price of the shares was that on the 13 September 1928. Nothing anyone could do would change that fact. The man had even had the cheek to wish her a very good morning as she left.
When the letter came from Sir Henry Manderville, Tina had to smile. The irony was so beautiful. Harry dead was going to get what Harry wanted alive. The only place for her and the children to go was Elephant Walk. It turned out, the farm for some reason Tina did not understand, was not Harry’s property. It would not be sold. She was welcome to live with the family in Africa. The farm was largely self-sufficient and owed no one a penny. Up until the letter, she had thought her only place to live was with her mother and father in the Dorset railway cottage but where the money was coming from to feed them all she had no idea. She had never worked in her life. The reading she had done so diligently was commercially worthless. Once she was forced to sell her shares in Colonial Shipping, the Rolls-Royce would go back where it belonged and Mrs Brigandshaw would be voted off the board.
So there it was she said to herself looking at the letter. She was going back to Africa in four months’ time whether she liked it or not… To add to the misery at the thought of living again in the African bush, all her children big enough to understand whooped with joy. To them, they were going home to be with their father if their father wasn’t coming home to them. To Tina, they were all going to grow up as little savages far away from the civilised world.
As Tina tried to tell herself, it was not meant to have turned out the way it was. Whatever she had done in the woods with the Honourable Barnaby St Clair, damn his eyes. The sins of the mother were about to be visited on the children. Even Tina could see it. Young Frank at five years old was the spitting image of Barnaby St Clair.
* * *
While Tina was contemplating the implications of burying herself in the African bush where theatres and restaurants had never been heard of, Barnaby was having the time of his life. There was nothing better than watching people who had only recently been stuck-up prigs come crawling. The ones who had been particularly high and mighty in their previous life Barnaby cut dead pretending he had no idea who they were. C E Porter was high up on his list. Brett Kentrich was no longer the condescending star of the West End stage since Happy Times had finished its run and Brett said she was resting. Christopher Marlowe’s new show, Sweet Moments of Life, was now the rage and Brett was n
ot in the cast. Looking back at better times appealed to the public. It took them out of their present misery. Barnaby even had a little gloat within himself at how the mighty were fallen. It was not in his nature to cut Brett. Once they were lovers. All he did was give her a look that said everything she did not want to know. The only surprise to Barnaby on the Brett Kentrich score was Christopher Marlowe. The poor man was still besotted with the woman. Barnaby even suspected the stupid fool was in love and marrying Brett had nothing to do with marrying a star.
Soon, when the stock markets started their inevitable small recoveries only to continue the downward slide, Barnaby was going to sell the market short. All the way down. The money he had made and put in twenty different banks to spread his risk was going to be nothing to how much he made on the way down. As the financial backer of Sweet Moments of Life, he was still making money from the theatre. They seemed to need him even more. Oscar Fleming now treated him as an equal, not quite so condescending. So far Barnaby had had brief affairs with four members of the cast. To Barnaby, being rich when everyone else around him was thinking of money going down the proverbial drain made it all better than it had been before. The game of life was on again. At full pelt. To be, as he put it to himself, rich, thirty-three years old, in the prime of life was positively spiffing… It really was a shame about poor old Tina. It could not have happened to a nicer gal. The fact he had kept his hands off the widow had something to do with his satisfaction. She might just have asked him for help.
To add to Barnaby’s happiness as he sat at the breakfast table, Edward brought in the morning newspaper with Barnaby’s second cup of coffee. The markets had taken another shuddering fall. Another well-known financier in America had shot himself. Unemployment had reached a new height in the industrial world. Hitler’s Nazis showed stunning gains in German elections. Everything pointed to a bear market for the stock exchange and Barnaby’s war chest was safe. The only question on his mind was who to take out to dinner that night. Something a little different. Showgirls were fun for a while but rather stupid: they had nothing to say. Just looked good. To get Barnaby excited there had to be something more. Like a very young girl or someone else’s wife. Especially if someone else was fool enough to love his wife. Or at least be jealous when she went off to bed with another man. Robert came into his mind which gave him the idea. Robert, the new father of a bouncing little boy which had made Barnaby jealous. Robert’s Richard was legitimate. His Frank was not. One day Richard was going to inherit the family title… The idea of bedding Freya had never crossed his mind. She was too old. Like Tina, children made her fat despite Tina losing all the weight worrying about Harry or so Barnaby was told by mutual friends who liked to keep him informed. Even he had his limits of bad taste when it came to women. His brother’s wife and Harry’s widow were off limits. But not Portia Ramsbottom, now in town from Yorkshire for the summer season someone had said. Perfect, he told himself going to the phone where Portia’s London number was in his book. He would play the intellectual for the evening. The patron of the arts. She would love it… Only when Barnaby reached the telephone did he remember. The girl was now married having finally given up on Robert when Robert came back to England married to Freya.
“Anyway, you idiot,” he said putting down the phone, “you had her once before.”
It was after she came to the townhouse for drinks with Robert bringing Freya Taylor in his wake, he now remembered. He rather thought he was drunk at the time which usually blocked his memory. No wonder the girl had been easy. She had done it to spite his brother, poor girl… The things people did to each other… Now, who on earth could he take to Clara’s for supper…? There had to be someone he could think of he hadn’t been to bed with before… And Clara needed the business or she would close Clara’s and go off into the country to hibernate as she had promised so many times. The countryside. Why did they all want to live in the countryside?
Barnaby’s right hand went out again to the phone. He picked up the receiver and put it down again. For a moment, almost, but only almost, he was going to phone Tina and ask her out to dinner. Taking his hand off the receiver he wondered how she was. What she was going to do. What she felt like in his bed… And then he began to sweat… She was still the only woman who could make him want her as much as before.
“And she’s old, damnation.”
“Did you want me, sir,” called Edward from the kitchen.
Ignoring Edward, Barnaby went out of the house, slamming the front door behind him. Crossed Piccadilly into Green Park. It was something he had done before. Walking off his frustration. Always with the same woman in his mind.
When Barnaby came back to the house for lunch he had still not thought of anyone he wanted to take out to dinner other than Harry Brigandshaw’s widow, the only woman that had ever been in his life.
When he strode through the house to the telephone he had made up his mind. The girl had lost weight. The girl was vulnerable. Would fall all over herself with gratitude.
“Hello, Tina? This is Barnaby. How are you old girl?”
“Go to hell, Barnaby. I have enough problems without you trying to come back into my life.”
“How’s Frank?”
“You really are a sod.”
He could even see her face at the other end of the line as she slammed down the phone.
When Edward brought him a badly cooked lunch, Edward only being good at breakfasts, Barnaby was still smiling. Only then did he have a bright idea. Leaving the food to go cold on the table, Barnaby went to the phone and called Cuddles Morton-Sayner. Sometimes a man needed a pimp.
“How strange you should call, Barnaby. I was just thinking of you as I ate my lunch. The Marchioness of Ravenhurst is in town. On her own. I’m sure she would love to see you.”
“What happened to John Lacey?”
“Poor chap went bust. Had his money in the wrong shares. The ones his so-called friends told him would double overnight. Lost over two million dollars in less than six months. The old saying. Easy come, easy go.”
“What is Stella doing in England?”
“I have no idea.”
“Stella doesn’t really come into my mind. Poor old John Lacey. I’ve been out of touch. You do know I did not have a penny in the stock market?”
“It’s my business to know, Barnaby. What can I do for you on this lovely day in May? Don’t tell me you have run out of pretty girls.”
“I want a challenge, Cuddles. I think I’m starting to get bored.”
“There’s a cocktail party at the Dorchester starting at six. I’ll put you on the guest list. I’m the party organiser. Your brother Merlin has been invited for some reason. All very arty-farty but you will fit in. The Royal Albert Hall is trying to raise money to fix the roof. You won’t know a soul apart from your brother. A small donation, Barnaby. I know you don’t like wasting money. Just tell me who you like the look of first and I will tell you who they are. If you think it will make a good challenge I will do the introduction. How does that sound?”
“Will Stella be there?”
“Of course not. She doesn’t have any money. Defunct titles are two a penny these days.”
“Isn’t her father rich?”
“Not any more. There’s a scandal in the pension fund for his trade union. He’ll be lucky not to go to jail.”
“How do you know all these things?”
“Do I ask you your business? Stella Fitzgerald as she was when we did business is history. Like so many people these days. You can’t believe how many people who once looked down their noses at me are suddenly so nice.”
“I think I can, Cuddles.”
“Six o’clock in the ballroom of the Dorchester. It’s a big party. The roof is a mess… Got to go.”
* * *
When Cuddles Morton-Sayner put the phone down she was having a good giggle. She knew all about Barnaby St Clair and Mrs Brigandshaw. Again she picked up the phone.
* * *
From the outside, Riverglade looked the same as Stella remembered. Except for the shutters. She had hired a motorboat in Oxford to make the last part of her journey. To come ashore at the same place she had fallen into his arms and been stopped from going head first into the River Thames. The grass down from the house to the river was cut. The flower beds she could see near the river free of weeds. Everything looked the same except the shutters on the windows making the house look blind.
Since the October stock market crash, Stella’s life had never been the same. The sham of her marriage was over. The clients that begged the Marchioness of Ravenhurst to decorate their Manhattan apartment no longer had money. The easy money had stopped. The money no one had had to work for. The creation of vast wealth on paper had gone with the wind. People were lucky to hold on to their jobs and their apartments. The days of ostentatious spending had stopped. Like a big door slammed into their collective faces. The free lunch they had all taken for granted was over and with it Stella’s design studio, her husband’s money, which when given to him by her father for making his daughter a marchioness, had seemed unimportant, a fragment of Patrick Fitzgerald’s wealth, the man whose sons were going to run America, their American dream now shattered in the filth of accusation. People who had once fed from the same trough were snapping and snarling at her father happy to push him under to save themselves. The wonderful people who were making America so rich in September were now hated spectators, liars, fraudsters and cheats. For Stella, it did not seem fair but she knew it was. There was always retribution for ill-gotten wealth.