To the Manor Born

by Peter Rimmer

  Drinking beer and listening, sitting comfortably in the shade of a great tree with a pretty young girl serving his beer was all Tembo asked for from life, the nagging of his own wives far away in the back of his mind.

  There was a small fire under an iron grille that was kept burning all day giving off the pleasant smell of wood fire and making coals always ready to cook. At the bar counter at the trunk of the old tree were trays of butchered meat and fillets of Nile perch. On the side of the fire stood two three-legged iron pots with domed lids. In one, slowly cooking in their own juice were dried beans now turned soft by the slow cooking. In the other large pot, maize meal was cooking occasionally stirred with a long spoon by the young girl with the large bottom who always leaned over the pot showing Tembo her large black bottom and white knickers. Tembo hoped the girl was doing it on purpose… There was plenty of time. The Arab and the porters first recruited by Keppel Howland were going to be away a long time… Or so he hoped. Even in the day, by the great lake that had no end in sight, the temperature was pleasant under the tree… Cool at night with a soft breeze off the lake.

  When Tembo was hungry he went to the counter. In the mornings he ate fish. In the day and evening, a piece of meat: all were cooked as he liked them over the hot coals on the iron grid, sipping beer. Added to the beans and sudza, his food was just right. Tembo’s days and nights were perfect. There was nothing a man could want more. Most nights he and Parsons slept under the tree next to the fire covered in blankets listening to the wild animals before they fell into dreams satiated by good food and beer. Drinking beer all day was an art that required slow drinking and good stories. Tales to be told and tales to be heard. Sometimes Tembo told a long story in Shona which no one understood. Everyone smiled and drank their beer listening to every word savouring the day under the big tree by the great lake whose shores none of them could see across. The great stretch of clean blue water, the one great lung of Africa that helped them breathe the pure clean air. It was good to be alive by the side of the lake with his friends.

  The days folded gently into each other. Tembo was so lazy he just looked at the young girl with appreciation not bothering to take it any further… Sometimes he knew it was better not to eat what was in front of him. Fulfilment was always too short. Once a woman was taken she was rarely as exciting any more… Something Tembo reflected on sadly as he thought back over his life in the shade of the big tree.

  * * *

  The best part of Tembo’s day was the sleep after lunch. Half an hour under the tree settled the morning beer and made room for the rest of the day. It was part of the drinking ritual passed down through the generations. A hut near water, fat cattle, three wives to work the fields and bring the brewed beer and a sleep after lunch was in Tembo’s mind the attainable pursuit of every man’s life… A long, lazy life of luxury and pure contentment.

  * * *

  Tembo was half-asleep when the two men came to the tree and bought themselves each a beer. They were well dressed and looked important. The young girl in her rush to serve the men spilt beer from the bowls of white brew, receiving a frown from the older of the men. It was none of Tembo’s business so he went off to sleep where he dreamt of the great ocean that had no end. In the dream, people were speaking to the part of the dream that was himself making Tembo wake up with a start. Never before had he dreamt in the white man’s language. Being awake too early annoyed him. The ray of sun through the boughs of the tree rested on the same spot in front of his foot. He had slept not a minute despite his dream being much longer which was always the case… A dream was all in one picture he was told. An instant event with all the sequences coming in one, which the brain formatted when the sleeper woke up. When Tembo first became a man he had asked the sangoma about dreams, the wise man who lived far from Elephant Walk. When Tembo wanted something, he always went to see the same wise old man. The sangoma could talk to the ancestors, which was why he knew so much… All the knowledge of all the ancestors in all their lives long. It was important to listen to such a man.

  When Tembo was wide-awake still lying under the tree in the shade except for the one shaft of sunlight that had not moved, nothing happened. The dream did not take on a life of its own showing him everything. Instead, a different story was going on that had nothing to do with what was spoken in the dream. Tembo lifted his head from the ground to make sure he was awake. The man who called himself Parsons for a reason Tembo never understood, was sleeping soundly, fluting through his open mouth making sounds like a whimpering dog, a sure sign Parsons was having a good dream… Tembo sat up and looked around to see what was going on.

  To Tembo’s astonishment, the two well-dressed black men seated on high stools at the bar were speaking to each other in English. Not very good English, Tembo could hear but still having a conversation both appeared to understand. They looked very different from each other, which probably explained why they were speaking English. The one who was younger had a coal-black skin and a small neat-looking nose with small nostrils. The older, the more arrogant of the two, who was pretending not to look at the young girl who was stirring the pot of maize meal with the long spoon, leaning over and showing the old man her big bottom and knickers she had probably bought in the Mwanza bazaar, had a nose squashed all over his ugly face with nostrils so big Tembo was sure the man could stick two of his fingers right up to the top. The coal-black man with a kind of face Tembo had never seen before was telling the story while the older man looked at the young girl’s bottom, making Tembo jealous, as was his right, having spent days and a large sum of money looking at the girl while he made up his mind what to do. The man was talking about white gods who lived with a tribe in the jungle on the far side of the great lake. The gods had fallen out of the sky, little nose was telling big nose, which made Tembo sit up straight.

  The older man, bored with a tall story got up. He went over and patted the young girl’s bottom, which she seemed to like. The girl must have seen by the old man’s clothes, big nose was rich. Every old rich man took young wives when the others grew old and ugly. When she saw Tembo looking at what was going on, she tossed her head telling Tembo without words to mind his own business.

  Tembo stood up.

  When Tembo reached the bar the younger man was still talking, telling his story.

  “Where are these white men?” asked Tembo in English which surprised the man and stopped the flow of his story.

  “No one knows,” he said. “The rumour of the gods has been circling around us for years.”

  “How many years?”

  “About two.”

  “But nobody knows for certain if the gods really exist?”

  “Or which tribe they live with. It is just the making of a legend.”

  While the older man went off with the younger girl down to the lake, Tembo and small nose explained to each other how both of them spoke English. The coal-black man came from Uganda, another country run by the English with their mission stations and schools. The old man with the big nose came from Kenya, a British colony like Rhodesia where he too had been taught to speak English. Both Uganda and Kenya, like the Tanganyika territory they were now in, owned part of Lake Victoria. Along with territory owned by the King of the Belgians.

  “Who is the King of the Belgians?” asked Tembo enthralled by the man’s knowledge.

  “Another white man.”

  “That explains… Where did the story start? Of gods from the sky?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “We are going to England. To see the King. In our countries, we are important men. We came down the lake. Tomorrow we take the train to Dar es Salaam… The old man likes the young girl.”

  “Yes, he does. She is my girl.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “It does not matter. There are many young girls.”

  When the old man came back from the lake Tembo left them alone. The young girl came back five minutes later.


  When the two men were leaving Tembo was drinking from a bowl of beer.

  “How many white gods?” he called.

  “Fifty. Exactly fifty. Five times two hands. Why are you interested?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Are not they all?”

  “Is there any truth to it?”

  “Whoever knows?”

  “Have a good trip.”

  The old man turned round and glared at Tembo.

  In his frustration, Tembo went down to the water’s edge where he threw small stones from the beach out into the water sparkling in the sun. It was also big. Where did he go? Unless Harry Brigandshaw was alive and walked out of the bush on his own, Tembo would never, in all the lives of his ancestors put together, be able to find where he was… It was just another African rumour. When the others came back on the hired boat with the Arab captain he was going to take them home. With the money in his pocket, he could buy a very young wife and not have to stare at the young girl with the big bottom.

  When Tembo fell asleep that night, he was drunk. All night long it was black in his sleep. Not one dream. Not even as he woke to the dawn. His head was throbbing. Even before he got up from the floor, Tembo was in a bad temper. If the Arab wasn’t back soon Tembo was going to put the tusks of ivory on the train himself… There was something going on that had to do with Harry Brigandshaw, the white man who treated him as more a friend than servant. He owed it to the man… Otherwise, the rest of the white men could go back from whence they came. All these aeroplanes, trains and boats with steam engines were interfering with the tranquillity of his life. The way he and his ancestors had lived as far back as time.

  16

  September 1930 – New Beginnings

  With the turmoil in the world’s financial markets, Sir Jacob Rosenzweig had a lot on his mind. Not the least Rebecca’s wedding at the end of the month. The idea that buying out Madgwick and Madgwick in London would explode in his face had never entered his mind. The chapter in his life that included Ralph Madgwick had been closed for him once and for all by Colonel Wallace Madgwick who had vitriolically reacted to Ralph becoming a Jew. Benny Levy, a gold-digger in all probability, was a far better husband for his daughter. A man hungry for success with just the right amount of ruthlessness. Sentimental businessmen in Sir Jacob’s experience most always went bust. There could be no sentiment in business. Only in charity.

  Madgwick and Madgwick were owed large sums of money by their clients who were unable to pay. To prevent Madgwick and Madgwick being put into liquidation, which would lose a lot of money for people other than Rosenzweig Bank, Sir Jacob, through a bank nominee organised by Westminster Bank, had made an offer gladly accepted by Wallace Madgwick who along with Ralph Madgwick’s mother, had personally guaranteed Madgwick and Madgwick’s overdraft facility with Rosenzweig Bank. In reality, nothing but the staff of Madgwick’s changed. The Madgwick clients still owed the same amount of money. Now directly to Rosenzweig Bank. When business returned to normal as it always did in the end, Rosenzweig’s would get their money back with interest and own Madgwick and Madgwick for nothing.

  When he told Rebecca he had saved Ralph’s mother and Uncle Wallace from having to sell their other assets to make good the guarantees to Rosenzweig’s, he thought it would help to restore a relationship that had gone from bad to worse from the moment Wallace Madgwick pulled his nephew out of America… Rebecca exploded. Flew into a rage. Ran out of the front door of the Abercrombie apartment and slammed the front door in his face.

  For hours Sir Jacob had waited for his daughter to come back. Despite the chaos reigning at the bank.

  “You did it on purpose. Not enough to ruin Ralph and make him penniless. Now you’ve taken it out on his family… I hate you. Hate you.”

  All day long, his daughter’s words kept ringing in his mind, the thought of his wife arriving in America for the wedding not helping one bit.

  * * *

  Rebecca had gone straight to the flower shop and her friend Maryanne. Maryanne was still not married to Shaul. Her life was in the same mess. Both girls agreed it was difficult enough to find the right man to marry without being prevented from doing so… From ending up through life with a spouse picked for them, something that was about to happen to poor Shaul… Business and family overriding any kind of love. Other people’s interests were important, the religious incantations as an excuse for the family to get their own way.

  When Rebecca had come down from the height of her indignation she was not sure if picking a fight over the forced sale of a company in England had not been an excuse. The very thought of Benny Levy even touching her made her flesh crawl. The man was physically repulsive. All he ever talked about was business and himself. The business of Rosenzweig Bank.

  Exhausted from finding Ralph running off into the African bush on a wild goose chase that was going to get him killed, she had had no fight left in her to do battle with her father. Sometimes, she had told Maryanne, taking the line of least resistance was the best alternative. Without really taking a proper look at Benny Levy, she had agreed with her father to marry him. If nothing else, it seemed to make her father happy, the other man in her life she loved.

  Benny, ever the calculator had obsequiously kept his distance until the marriage was arranged. Only then had he come out flying his true colours, something Maryanne was quick to point out to her best friend Becky.

  “He’s insinuating himself into the bank. Through you, he can become a partner, especially when you have his children. On his own, he’ll stay an employee. The man’s a creep, Becky. How can you bear the thought of kissing him let alone anything else? Just imagine what your children are going to be like rubbing their pudgy hands insinuating their way through life. Were it me, Becky, I’d vomit.”

  Rebecca and Maryanne were both twenty-four years old. At the peak of their power as desirable women.

  They both agreed when Rebecca came storming into the empty flower shop that if they did nothing now they were doomed to misery for the rest of their lives. That time was running short. That time was running out.

  Moving in that night with Maryanne, Rebecca made up her mind to go to England. From the papers, she knew the expedition to find the English pilot had failed. Ralph would be back in England. There was nowhere else for him to go.

  Having carefully saved up half her allowance, Rebecca took her life into her own hands and bought passage to England. To hell with religion. To hell with everyone. This time she was going to follow her heart and not listen to anyone.

  * * *

  What Rebecca did not know was by following her own desire she was breaking her father’s heart. A condition that was not helped by the arrival of Sir Jacob’s estranged wife for a wedding that was not going to happen.

  In the peace and calm of the Abercrombie apartment with only Rebecca as his constant companion, Sir Jacob had forgotten why he was happy his wife had stayed in England. The woman was a foul-mouthed shrew whose only joy in life was finding fault in other people.

  * * *

  Days went into weeks and still no word from Rebecca. Not that Sir Jacob did not know where she had gone. Passages out of America were no secret if the shipping lines were given a good reason. One of which was runaway daughters without money.

  After the third week, Sir Jacob telephoned Wallace Madgwick. Uncle Wallace was in the middle of moving out of his office with the help of Rosie Prescott.

  “Where’s Ralph, Wallace?”

  “No idea, old boy. My word are we having fun. Can’t wait to get into the country. Lovely month September. Sold everything I own and bought a place in the Cotswolds. Going cheap. Everybody’s selling. Chap was only too glad to get out. Bought the furniture as well… Have to go, old chap… Why did you phone?”

  “Where’s your nephew, Ralph? Rebecca’s run away.”

  “Always did like that gal. Where’s she run to?”

  “England.”

  “Well, he isn’t here… Rosie,
where’s Ralph?”

  “In Rhodesia.”

  “Hear that, old chap. Still in Africa.”

  “Has Rebecca made contact with you?”

  “I’m not very high on her list. About down the bottom with you old chap. The girl’s in love. Nearly a thousand acres. Don’t shoot as well with one eye but a man can’t have everything. Cheerio, old chap.”

  * * *

  In Sir Jacob’s office at the bank, the line went dead. He’d lost her. This time he had really lost his daughter… There was nothing he could do.

  “Just be happy,” he whispered.

  If Wallace Madgwick knew where to find Ralph, his daughter would find out and go to Rhodesia. Picking up the phone he called his secretary.

  “Find me a map of the world.”

  After searching British East Africa on the map, Sir Jacob looked further south. There were two of them. Northern and Southern Rhodesia. Even on the map, they looked like the farthest place on earth.

  When he went home that night, his wife said she was going back to England to the rest of the children. He was going to be alone… For the rest of his life… Then he smiled. His wife was still talking and he still wasn’t listening… That part of his loneliness would only be a pleasure… Maybe he would join a club… Maybe. Just maybe he would find himself a mistress… Somewhere he had read it was never too old to fall in love… Only then did he notice the chatter had stopped… His wife had gone out of the apartment… In the midst of all his new thoughts, he had not even noticed she had gone.

  * * *

  The last person Christopher Marlowe expected to see in London was Rebecca Rosenzweig when she arrived at the door of Robert St Clair’s flat in Stanhope Gate. With Brett’s pregnancy making the attic room impractical with its distant bathroom, Robert had lent them his London flat. Freya had finished her play for Oscar Fleming soon after Richard was born. She hoped Christopher’s influence would help Oscar Fleming take on the play.