by Peter Rimmer
With the sun shining into the man’s face, Harry imagined a knight of old in full armour waiting for his horse. Barnaby, not seeing the brief connection between the two men, tugged at the strong arm and led the big man out past the main gate of Purbeck Manor. For the second time since leaving the train at Corfe Castle, Harry shivered as if he’d seen a ghost. Then he understood. The man down below was Richard, eldest son of an ancient family, heir to the barony.
Quickly, Harry washed in the cold water he poured into the bowl from the jug and dressed in the clothes he had worn on the train and the walking shoes he had taken from his bag that was still at the railway station. Then he opened the door to the inner corridor, turned right, away from the end window, and found the central stairs he had climbed the previous night. He was ravenously hungry. Following his nose and the smell of coffee and fried bacon, Harry reached the breakfast room that overlooked the terrace.
“Morning, Harry,” said Robert. “Sleep all right?”
“Perfect, Robert.”
“Help yourself. We all just come and go for breakfast. The little spirit burners keep the food and coffee hot. We’ll take a drive to the station when you’re finished and see the Pringles.”
“Well I thought we’d go rabbit shooting,” said Merlin, coming into the room. “We don’t have to take the dogs. The rabbits are making an awful mess of the kale that father so wants to feed to his pigs. I found the burrow yesterday when I was out walking alone. You can shoot a gun, Brigandshaw?”
“I shot my first leopard in self-defence when I was ten.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you would in Africa. Do you think a leopard would be scared of me, Harry?”
“I rather doubt it,” said Harry.
“I could always try.”
“Only once.”
“Lucky we don’t have leopards in England… Cook wants to make a rabbit stew with shallots and you know how Barnaby loves rabbit stew. Come on. You can ride on over to the railway station in the trap and take Mrs Pringle a brace of rabbits. I’m sure she’s sick of our chicken. I might even come with you.”
“There won’t be room for three in the trap,” said Robert.
“Then I won’t come. What kind of gun do you want, Brigandshaw?”
“I’m sure you can call him Harry,” said Robert.
“Not till I’ve known a man for a week.”
“A .22 rifle,” said Harry.
“To shoot rabbits! Rabbits run you know.”
“Not if you stay far enough back. Then they don’t know who’s killing them, and if the shot’s clean the other rabbits go on eating. Same with springbok.”
“How far back?”
“About two hundred yards.”
“You can shoot a rabbit through the head at two hundred yards?”
“I can with my own rifle. I’ll have to shoot yours a few times at a target before I use it on the rabbits. Each rifle has its own habits.”
“I’ll bet you five shillings you can’t clean kill a rabbit at two hundred.”
“I never bet with friends.”
“We’re not friends yet.”
“Then I’d better take the bet.”
“Merlin, from where are you going to get five shillings?” asked Robert.
“You don’t have to tell everyone we are poor.”
“My father lived in a mud hut next to a river when he first came to Africa. Everything they ate they caught or shot. Uncle Tinus said it was the best days of their lives.”
“What kind of a name is Tinus?” asked Merlin, annoyed with himself for having made the bet.
“Martinus.”
“Then he was a Boer?”
“Yes. A Boer general, and because he was then living in the Cape, the British hanged a brave man for treason when he was captured.”
“Then he wasn’t your real uncle.”
“He was my father’s best friend, his mentor. Oh, he was an uncle all right.”
“On which side did your father fight?”
“The British.”
“Why?” asked Merlin.
“Because he is an Englishman, which was why Uncle Tinus fought for the Boers. He was a Boer. Wars make a lot less sense from close up. There is nothing pretty about war. I watched him hang.”
The way to the kale fields was through the formal garden with its ponds and streams. The ponds were covered in weed. Thick bushes of rhododendron cut off parts of the garden, nothing having been tended for years. To Harry, the riot of so many exotic plants and trees brought an overpowering beauty that he sensed was deeply mixed with melancholy.
On a bench next to a weed-filled lily pond sat the knight without his armour. Barnaby had gone off to catch butterflies with the net he kept under the bench, the netting partly rotten.
Annabel, a sixteen-gauge shotgun under her arm, a green Robin Hood hat on her head topped by a long cock-pheasant feather, stopped at a distance to look at her older brother. Genevieve and Lucinda had preferred to stay at the house.
“From here he looks so perfect,” she said, taking Harry’s free arm. “Everything on the outside looks perfect. We just can’t see into his head where it has all gone wrong. He’s the best-looking man I have ever seen. And he’s quite useless… What we are going to do when Barnaby grows up is another problem.”
“What went wrong?”
“We St Clairs can only marry into the gentry. Over the years we’ve married into the same families time and time again. You have to change the bull to keep a strong herd. Even I know that, but don’t tell my mother I know. He’s going to be the last of the direct line according to Aunt Nut.”
“He has brothers who will have sons. The title will continue.”
“Maybe it would be better to stop with Richard.”
“Families. Tribes. People. They don’t just stop.”
“How do we know if there is no one left to tell us?”
“Is she really nutty?”
“Not at all. They called her Nut as a child as she was sweet as a nut. That’s the story. Quite eccentric, but not crazy. But she does have premonitions. She foretold her brother, my grandfather that is, would squander the family fortunes. He was a terrible gambler. When she makes one of her pronouncements we are inclined to take her seriously. Was your grandfather really a pirate?”
“There’s a pirate in every man who makes money. Or so my mother says.”
“He’s rich?”
“He’s dead. Left the company to Uncle James.”
“None to your father?”
“My father is the black sheep of the family. Ran away to Africa with my mother. Grandfather cut him off without a penny. And there’s a lot more to that story I’m not sure about. Mother says there are some things children should not want to know.”
“So you’re poor. Why did you take Merlin’s bet?”
“My father made a lot of money killing elephants for their ivory. He and Uncle Tinus. He’s not very proud of it. He says you kill with abandon when you’re young and regret it later. We now have a farm.”
“Is it big?”
“About the size of all the land once owned by your family. Robert and I worked it out.”
“Merlin doesn’t have five shillings.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Miss the first rabbit. Probably the second.”
“He will think you were talking big.”
“Do you?”
“Not after what I saw what you did to that target… It must be awfully romantic living in Africa. You’re a nice man. I like nice people.”
“I’m not really nice. Good at giving the appearance, maybe. What people do and think are different. I’m a guest in a lovely home. It was my fault to have boasted. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and shoot the rabbits, and there wouldn’t have been a bet in the first place… Will Richard want to join us?”
“No, he doesn’t like guns.”
“Then in my mind, he’s more sensible than t
he rest of us.”
The dirt road ran back along the crown of the Purbeck Hills and gave Harry a wide view of the English countryside. Robert had the reins and the two brace of rabbits hung from the back of the trap, sporadically dripping blood from their dead mouths not a foot above the road. The larks were high in the sky and it was raining over Swanage and the distant sea. Harry could clearly make out the ruins of Corfe Castle on its part of the commanding hill.
Where his trunk would sit when it was picked up from the railway station, sat Barnaby, his legs hanging over the back of the trap between the dead rabbits, his hands holding on firmly against the jolts of the iron wheels running over the ruts in the road. Since leaving Purbeck Manor, they had seen no one, not even a farmer in his fields. There was no hedgerow beside the high road, only a line of great stones two feet high and two feet wide that had lain where they were for centuries. The horse seemed to be enjoying the exercise and kept to a spanking trot until they dipped down towards the village of Corfe Castle when the horse slowed down to a walk for the decline. They passed the Greyhound where an old man was sitting on a bench outside the open door, the handle of a pint of beer gripped firmly in a gnarled hand. The old man watched them for a moment and then dipped his face into the beer, leaving some of the froth on his moustache. Robert called his name and the old man half raised his stick.
Half a mile through the village, Robert found the railway cottage that backed the railway line on one side and the brook they had walked on the other. Climbing roses grew over the arch to the small door that had stood for hundreds of years. The railway company had inherited the cottage when they bought the strip of land in 1840 to build the narrow-gauge railway. The walls of the small house were built from dressed blocks of Purbeck stone, with a black slate roof on top, and chimney pots at the ends of the single roof. The windows were very small.
Barnaby jumped off the back and ran to the central door, which opened before he could reach the knocker. Harry caught a glimpse of the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Hand in hand the children ran off around the back of the Pringles’ cottage.
“That child is absolutely beautiful,” said Harry.
“’Nd they’s goin’ to break each other’s ’earts,” said Mrs Pringle, standing in the doorway. She was a large woman in width but short in stature and still she bent her head coming through the low door. Her Dorset accent was as strong as the smile on her face.
“They’re still young, Mrs P,” said Robert. “Brought you some rabbits instead of a chicken.”
“Your sandwiches are the very best,” said Harry for something to say. The woman’s arms were twice the thickness of any arms he had ever seen, and they were covered white with flour up to the puffed sleeves. A red apron covered her huge stomach.
“My Tina’s goin’ on ten. Trouble I say. Can’t mix classes. Girl’s got ideas too big for ’er boots already. What’s more, Mr Pringle agrees with me once in ’is life… Africa? Never been to Africa. Fact is, never been out Dorset. Dorset’s good enough for us and ours. There was Walter, of course. Better come in. Made a plum pie from last year’s bottled Victorias. Bet those two be in back door by now and straight into the pie. Not too much lead pellets in them rabbits?”
“None,” said Robert. “My friend shot them with a rifle from two hundred yards straight through their heads.”
“Two hundred yards! Bless my soul. Two hundred yards. Bring ’em in, Mister Robert, but please don’t drip on my floor. I like a bit of rabbit myself. And so does Mr Pringle.”
“Harry, what a treat. Mrs Pringle’s plum pie.”
The square table had been made long ago to fit the kitchen and, along with the old wood-burning stove, had never been taken out of the room. There was just enough space between the tables and the wall to fit a bench along each side, the benches polished by the ‘slides’ into the table of countless Pringles over many generations. When the railway company bought the land and found the cottage, they found Grandfather Pringle and offered him the job of clearing the track of cows and sheep when the weekly train was coming. No one in the family quite knew what Grandfather had done before joining the railways. When a man is in his cottage there is always someone giving him jobs to do. The rent was meant to have been paid to the St Clairs before the railway company came along but Robert thought it doubtful if any money had ever changed hands. A crumbled building at the back of the cottage spoke of long-dead pigs and cows. The small kitchen garden was neat as a new pin. Once, it was said, there were salmon in the brook. What with rabbits and pheasants, a man’s family could eat well without having the kind of job people now expected. Robert rather liked the idea of those days. In the summer the fruit was preserved, the wood cut for winter, the wild mushrooms pickled, jams and jellies made from the wild strawberries and blackberries, hazelnuts stored, chestnuts crushed into a paste and pickled with vinegar and last year’s sheep wool made ready for making into homespun family clothes. Only when the wars came along were Pringles taken from their tranquillity to fight for King and country. It was the only price they paid. When called by Lord St Clair they had followed for centuries without a word. It was their place, and they enjoyed their place in life, the good and the bad of it. Anyone other than Lord St Clair asking them to fight would have been given a rude awakening. Some people called it allegiance. The Pringles called it mutual protection.
“One of your sons fought in the war?” said Harry.
“That was Walter. Boers didn’t give ’im a scratch. Now ’e’s gone to Australia with a bloke ’e met in the war. My Maggie’s in Australia. It’s so far away. Family should stay put. There you are, see,” she said triumphantly, opening the oven door. “Put it in oven, I did. Got a big piece out of my pie. That’ll be Tina. Off to the river and never stop talkin’ unless they’re eatin’. Growing kids, I say. Now, Mister Harry, you have a taste of my pie and Mister Robert can ’ang them rabbits in the meat safe. I’m goin’ to ’ave a nice cup of tea.”
“They’re lucky to be such good friends,” said Harry.
“Since they was five. There’s always a price to pay for ’appiness. Mark my words.”
“This plum pie is the best I have ever eaten.”
“So it should be… It’s goin’ to be dark ’fore you get ’ome.”
“Jug Ears knows his way in the dark,” said Robert.
“Funny name for a ’orse.”
“That was Barnaby. We’ll pick up the trunks on the way back and be home by supper.”
“How many children do you have, Mrs Pringle?” asked Harry.
“Eleven last time I counted. Bunk beds and two to a bed. Tina was my last. Sort of farewell surprise. She’s seven years younger than our Edward. Edward was named after the Prince of Wales when he was the Prince of Wales. Gone off to work in Swanage on a fishin’ boat. Comes ’ome weekends. They all comes and goes, ’cept the two in Australia and Albert our toff, ’e’s a gentleman’s gentleman in London. Speaks real posh.”
By the time they retrieved the trunks from the railway station, packed them on the back of the trap and perched Barnaby on top of them, Harry was looking forward to his supper as much as the rest of them. The little girl had once again stood in the doorway. On the way back in the gathering dusk, Barnaby sat as quiet as a mouse.
This time, it was Genevieve who took his hand at the stables and led Harry into the big house. She was carrying a storm lantern to show them the way. The horse had been rubbed down and put into his stable with the feed.
That night at supper there was no doubt in his mind. Granny Forrester was quite tiddly.
“You will stay for the summer?” asked Lady St Clair, when they had all finished eating.
“I’d love to,” said Harry, without a thought for his career. If there was anything he wanted to do at that moment in his life, it was to spend the English summer at Purbeck Manor. Under the table, the birthday girl Lucinda, all of fifteen years of age, was again rubbing her slippered feet against his ankle.
2
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sp; April 1907
Jack Merryweather had never done a day’s work in his life, and after five years of debauchery, he was bored to the point of distraction. He had walked from his club in Pall Mall to 27 Baker Street for the exercise. At the age of twenty-six, he had no intention of ending up fat and pasty-faced.
It was dark. Past midnight and the gas lamps in their triangular cages spluttered and flared. A mist from the River Thames crept through the West End of London leaving the cobblestones wet and shiny. The top hat was firmly on Jack’s head of chestnut hair, the opera cloak over his broad, shoulders, the silver-knobbed cane ready to come apart and reveal a three-foot steel rapier that he had never been forced to use. In his boredom (the club had been full of old fogies and not a woman worth looking at in the box he had joined at the opera), Jack rather hoped someone would give him a fight.
The idea of going to a nightclub had come and gone through his mind. For more than a year, drink and women had failed to satisfy Jack Merryweather. Part of his heritage had been envying his great-grandfather for having worked the business that had made Jack rich. He was quite sure Great-Grandfather Merryweather had never been bored.
His first sexual encounter with a woman had been when he was thirteen years old. He still remembered her name, Gloria Marshall; she was the scullery maid at 27 Baker Street. Seven years later his parents had died from a flu pandemic within days of each other. Gloria Marshall, unbeknown to Jack Merryweather, was the reason he was to prefer women with large breasts.
