by Peter Rimmer
LRAM — Professional Diploma for Licentiate of the Royal Academy of Music
Major Frank Johnson — Headed a pioneer expedition into Mashonaland and established Fort Salisbury near the Makabusi River
Mampoer — A South African moonshine made from fruit (mostly peaches or marulas) containing a high level of alcohol and drunk neat
Oom — Afrikaans word used in a respectful and affectionate form of address to an older man
Ouma — Afrikaans word used in a respectful or affectionate form of address for a grandmother or elderly woman
Rinderpest — An infectious viral disease of cattle and domestic buffalo
Rondavel — A westernised version of the African-style hut
Sub judice — Latin for “under judgement” meaning that a particular case or matter is under trial or being considered by a judge or court
Taal — The language of the Boers which would become known as Afrikaans
Tatenda — Shona for thank you
Topi — A pith helmet of Indian origin
Veld — Afrikaans word for open, uncultivated country or grassland in southern Africa
Vlei — Afrikaans word for low-lying, marshy ground, covered with water during the rainy season
Wallah — A native or inhabitant of Indian origin
Dear Reader
If you are enjoying reading Peter’s box set, The Brigandshaw Chronicles, and have a moment to spare, we would really appreciate a short review. Your help in spreading the word and keeping alive Peter’s work is gratefully received.
Heather Stretch (Peter’s daughter)
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ELEPHANT WALK
BOOK 2
Part 1 – Spring and New Beginnings
1
April 1907
Harry Brigandshaw first visited Purbeck Manor when he was twenty-one years old having finished his three years at Oxford University. He was one of the few undergraduates to take a degree in geology and the only student attending Oxford from the Crown colony of Southern Rhodesia. There had been three options for Harry in Central Africa: he could either help to administer the colony through the British South Africa Company that held the royal charter, farm the land, or search for minerals to supply the empire with its raw materials.
The train stopped at Corfe Castle railway station. His friend and fellow graduate, Robert St Clair, opened the carriage door and together they pulled their suitcases onto the platform, while down the far end of the train their trunks were unloaded from the guard’s van. They watched the porter, and the guard put the trunks on the barrow. No one got on the train and no one else got off. The stationmaster gave a loud, important whistle, the guard waved a green flag, the train engine puffed up steam, and the train went off on its way to Swanage.
The porter rested the barrow on its stubby legs and looked at them.
“No one to meet me?” said Robert St Clair.
“No one what I seen, Mister Robert. You want to leave the luggage as usual?”
“Thank you. I’ll probably come tomorrow. Mrs Pringle well, Pringle?”
“Arthritis. Be better with the summer comin’. Thank you, Mister Robert.”
“My friend and I will change in the waiting room. You just keep an eye open.” The porter put the shilling in his pocket, the cases on top of the trailer, and trundled off down the platform.
“Change?” asked Harry, not sure what was going on.
“You do have your walking shoes in your suitcase as I told you?”
“I think so.”
“Good, we’re going to walk to the Manor. It’s only seven miles along the valley… So many brothers and sisters and not one to meet me at the station.”
“You did tell them when we were arriving?”
“Probably not… One night I spent in the waiting room it was raining too much or was it snowing? The fire was cosy. Pringle told me his life story while we sat by the fire. One of his sons was in your part of the world during the war. Boers didn’t give him a scratch. Anyway, it’s a nice day today, and just right for a good walk. We’d need sandwiches and a fresh flask of tea.”
“And how do we do that?”
“Mrs Pringle. She makes real doorstopper sandwiches, but the bread’s always fresh. It’s kind of vital. You see, there were too many children coming and going from the Manor to school. We needed a refuelling stop.”
“And Mrs Pringle doesn’t mind?”
“You’ll see. I’ll bring her a chicken when I come back for the trunks. In the rural areas, everyone helps everyone else. It’s the only way it works. But you should know, coming from a farm.”
“Certainly couldn’t walk from Salisbury station to Elephant Walk.”
“How far is it?”
“Something like thirty-four miles.”
“That’s a bit far.”
“The distance is not the problem, it’s the lions.”
“Luckily we don’t have lions in England. Come on, Harry, can’t wait to get home. I did warn you the place is a lunatic asylum.”
“More than once, Robert.”
“You’ll love Mater and Pater, and I know they’ll love you.”
“And once your family owned the whole valley?”
“I’ll show you the castle ruins. Perfect spot for a sandwich and a cup of tea. I’m hungry, but first, let’s go and get what we need from Mrs Pringle.”
The victuals and the raincoats were put in Robert St Clair’s haversacks with an extra pair of socks each and the friends began the long walk through the English countryside.
“You knew we were going to walk?” said Harry, pulling a haversack onto his back.
“Of course. It’s easier to tell the guests when they arrive.”
The climb up to the ruins on top of the hill took them an hour. Moss and grass had grown over the old stones and none of the walls was higher than a man’s shoulders.
“Oliver Cromwell,” said Robert. “One of my ancestors fought for King Charles. Unlike Charles, who had his head cut off, he got across to France when Cromwell won the civil war. Cromwell had the old castle smashed to the ground. We came over with William the Conqueror long before that. Our fiefdom was the Isle of Purbeck, and our job to guard the valley from marauders coming from the sea. The castle commands the valley. The St Clairs owned as far as you can see in all directions. Now we have the home farm and I don’t think we can last much longer. Let’s sit on the grass and have a sandwich. I’m starving… Oh good, she’s put some pickles in the sandwich box. I’ve had this one since I went to prep school… When Cromwell died and with him the Commonwealth, Charles the Second gave my ancestors back their lands. There wasn’t any point in rebuilding the castle as the invention of the cannon had made the castle walls obsolete. Must have been bleak up here with the wind from all directions. The manor house was built in the valley, and if you look hard you can just see the chimney pots sticking through the trees. My father sometimes comes up here on his own to talk to our ancestors. It wasn’t his fault. Grandfather was a libertine. He loved gambling and women and lived most of his life in London. Aunt Nut says we now live in genteel poverty. Debt is very boring, Harry. I’m sorry… You ready for a good strong walk through the valley? Wow, that sandwich does make me feel a lot better. Tally-ho! I wonder what we are having for supper tonight? We all eat together. Everyone will want to know about Africa, so be prepared. The one golden rule is we all eat first before the food gets cold. Then we talk. Mater doesn’t like anyone talking with their mouths full.”
The first April shower was sharp and over before they had time to unstrap the haversacks and put on their raincoats. Rainwater dripped down their faces but did not penetrate their tweed hacking jackets.
Robert had taken the bridle path through the valley, saying the road, which straddled the Purbeck Downs, was boring. By the side of the path ran a brook that murmured and gurgled its way over stones, and round the small, twisting bends. The path had been w
ell ridden by many horses. Instinctively, from his years in the African bush, Harry pressed into the dung the stick he had cut from an ash tree soon after leaving the railway station.
“What are you doing?” asked Robert.
“Seeing how long ago the horse went by. But it doesn’t work. Dung keeps wet for weeks in England if it ever dries out. Force of habit. Like carrying a gun or a stick. In Africa, it is necessary to know what passed by and when. You can read from the ground what happened as easily as if you had sat high on a rock and watched the game. I never walk without a gun. My father was a white hunter before he went farming. The wilderness of Africa, he called it. Long before we English came to settle. Are there any fish in the stream?”
“Minnows and sticklebacks. As a small boy, I spent hours trying to catch them without success, happy as a sandboy. Fred caught one once. It was a stickleback and it pricked his finger. We were using bent pins so it fell back in the water. I was very proud of Frederick for weeks after that. Fred’s three years older than me. He took the Indian Civil exam and went out to India. Terrible writer, so we don’t hear much, but I always remember that stickleback… We’ve been walking long enough to deserve another sandwich and a cup of tea. I hope Fred’s enjoying India. It’s so far away from the brook… Did you hear that! It’s a cuckoo. Someone said they come here all the way from Africa but only sing in England. Everywhere else they are silent. Do you have cuckoos in Africa, Harry?”
“Yes. And you’re right, they don’t sing at home. We can sit under that tree in case it rains again. How much further do we have to go?”
“This is the halfway stop. Why do we grow up? It’s such a pity. When I was a child so many small things gave me pleasure. Now I seem to need much more from life to make me happy. Good, there’s one more pickle each. What do you think of our valley?”
“It’s very beautiful. I can see why your family have stayed here for so many hundreds of years. My maternal grandfather’s family came to England with the Conqueror. I wonder if our ancestors were friends? I rather fancy life repeats itself through the generations. Probably all it does do. The same lives over and over again. The rebirth. The only way we are sure of our immortality. From one generation to the next for all eternity.”
“Amen. I hope all my ancestors enjoyed their lives as much as I have done.”
“And will do.”
“Of course. We’ll split the last sandwich. One day I want to come to Africa. Harry, will you have me?”
“You will always be welcome.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Of course.”
“Poor Father. He says a degree in history is as much use as a man’s tits.”
“Or the Pope’s balls.”
“I’ve told you that one?”
“You have. And I won’t repeat it in front of the ladies on pain of death. Without knowledge of history, we have no idea of the future. Someone said that. Just don’t ask me who. Put on your raincoat. It’s going to rain again. And hard. Even under the tree.”
“How do you know? The clouds look the same.”
“First I heard it. Now I smell it. And here it comes.”
“You chaps from Africa are very clever.”
The short sharp shower came and went, leaving the sky slate-blue with scurrying clouds on the horizon. A watery sun came out and made no impression on the material of their jackets. Harry wished for an African sun. The grass and trees dripped from the rain and the fresh scents of spring overcame the smell of old, damp cloth. Birds took to singing now the rain had gone. A lark flew off from a field full of black and white cows, the tiny bird soaring up to the heavens, singing as though to burst its heart with joy. Harry watched the bird until it was too high to see with the natural eye. A thrush joined the chorus from a hedge that kept the black and white cows where they were meant to be.
“Your cows?” he asked, nodding his head at the field.
“Not yet. Not for a while yet. All we now have are the few hundred acres around the old house. Without Cousin Potts, we would be in all kinds of financial trouble. Father says in all his life he’s never wanted an old man to go on living so much. When grandfather died, Potty, as we kids called him, arrived for a weekend at the Manor and never left. Rumour has it that he and Granny Forrester were more than kissing cousins when they were young. He went away to one of the colonies, and when he came back my maternal grandmother was married to grandfather. I rather think there was a little scandal, and one hols I caught Potty and Granny holding hands looking into the old fish pond. I slunk away without them seeing me. I may be a romantic but those two old people are as much in love as Genevieve with her last boyfriend. If we put a pointed tassel-topped hat on Genevieve and a long white dress down to her ankles, she could walk straight into the court of King Arthur without worrying about the last centuries. Sir Willoughby Potts was governor of some obscure island in the Pacific that had something to do with Captain Cook and Australia, but for the life of me I can never remember its name. Don’t worry, Potty will tell you. He likes talking about the good old days in the colonies. He never married and has a thousand a year from his mother’s family. When he retired, I think it was Lord Salisbury who gave him a knighthood and a very nice letter of thanks. Not a penny, poor fellow, so when gramps died it was quite an opportunity for everyone. We had the house and he had the income. Poor old gramps. I hope he doesn’t mind. So you see the dilemma. We all watch his health very carefully. It’s so beastly not having money. Spoils everything. The one grandfather spent all the money, but the other one popped off rather conveniently, don’t you think?”
“How long has Cousin Potts been staying with you?”
“Twenty years. I was one year old.”
“How many acres do you farm?”
“Along with the land around the old house, about six hundred in total, I rather think. But there’s the rub. None of us knows anything about farming.”
“Isn’t it time someone found out?”
“The problem, I suppose, is Richard. He’s the eldest and inherits everything that’s left in the family. There’s no point in the rest of us learning to farm when the moment Pater dies, God forbid, Richard inherits what’s left of the land.”
“Why doesn’t Richard learn about farming? Like everything else, you have to know what you are doing on a farm. My father knows more about Elephant Walk than all the employees put together and he’s made certain both of his sons have inherited his knowledge.”
“You’ll see. Poor Richard… I think I’ll find a nice prep school in the country and teach history.”
“You want to be a junior school teacher?”
“They usually give the masters somewhere to live, even if it is a room next to the common room.”
“The pay is terrible.”
“Let me know when you think of something better I can do.”
“You might like Africa, Robert.”
“I would never leave England.”
Robert’s voice was so emphatic, Harry turned to look at him, but his friend strode ahead with his chin pushed forward. For the next half hour, they were silent as the old house appeared and reappeared through the trees and folds in the land. Intermittently, Harry could see the walls of it were covered in ivy. The windows winked at him through the trees, the spring sun reflecting from the panes. Then a cloud scurried over the sun and sent a cold shiver down Harry’s spine, more from premonition than from cold. For the first time in many months, Harry wished he was back on Elephant Walk with his mother and father, his Grandfather Manderville, Aunt Alison, Barend, Madge and Christo. He rather thought he could even put up with his brother George.
“What are you smiling at, Harry?”
“My family. For a moment I was homesick. Maybe watching your excitement as you get nearer to your house. We all crave our roots.”
“But your roots are still in England.”
“Not anymore. I can see the magic of England, but Africa has a magic all of its own. I think it�
�s the animals. The sudden danger. The vast empty space. But most of all I miss the smell of the wild sage, the smell of rain on old cooking fires in the African bush, the cry of a fish eagle, the bark of a bushbuck, the call of the morning doves. Africa is a place for the future. You don’t need a lot to be happy in Africa. A thatched rondavel beside a river. A patch of mealies and vegetables. A good rifle. In Africa, I am free of my fellow man’s conventions. Oxford was a wonderful experience but there were so many rules and regulations. All the time I was wondering what everyone else was thinking so I wouldn’t offend them by saying something out of turn. I was never my own man, always what the others wanted me to be. We were all trying so hard to conform and be pleasant to each other, we created masks that no one could penetrate. Now, isn’t that a false society?”
“I hope you didn’t think of me that way.”
“Fortunately in life, there are always exceptions. I wouldn’t be telling you about it if I thought you the same as the others. Do you know what I am talking about? Sorry. Things like that are best unsaid. A lot of what we think, should stay in our minds if we don’t want to upset the apple cart.”
“You’re right. Too much thinking gives me a headache. Come on. It’s still quite a walk. I think I can just make the house without starving to death.”
For half an hour they walked in comfortable silence thinking their oh so different thoughts, the signs of spring all around, the first lime-green leaves on the oak trees, the first primrose deep in last year’s dark winter grass.
In his mind, Robert St Clair heard the treble call of boys playing cricket, the chock of the leather ball on the bat, the smell of summer in his nostrils. He smiled. A schoolmaster! That was it. Never again having to worry like his father, always a roof over his head, and food on the common-room table. He was good at fitting in and liked being liked, playing the game was more important than winning. And in the hols, long walking tours with a good pair of boots and a strong walking stick, the whole of England, Scotland and Wales to be explored year after year. And in the winter sitting near a log fire reading his books, so many books, more than he could ever read in a lifetime. He was fourth in line to the barony, no need for progeny, but if a lovely, sweet girl wished to join his woodland walks, he would be happy with whatever life should bring.
