by Peter Rimmer
They all left the dining room to take their coffee in the lounge. With so much on his mind, he was not looking properly where he was going and would have bumped into the girl with the dark ringlets had not Jack put out a restraining hand. His reverie was rudely interrupted by the grating voice of the ringlet girl’s mother.
“Good evening, Mr Merryweather. Why what a nice idea. Let us all take our coffee together. So nice for you to make new friends, and the food was so good. Perfect, some would say. Sallie and I are so impressed you are sitting at the captain’s table. You must introduce Sallie to your new friends, Mr Merryweather. Mr Merryweather is an old friend of the family,” she finished to no one and everyone.
“Mrs Barker, Miss Barker, may I introduce you to Mr Harry Brigandshaw of Rhodesia and the Honourable Robert St Clair of Corfe Castle. Gentlemen, Mrs Barker and Miss Barker.”
“The castle, I am afraid, was knocked down by Oliver Cromwell,” said Robert.
“And where then do you live, Mr St Clair?” said Mrs Barker accusingly.
“In Purbeck Manor.”
“Sounds complicated to me to come from a castle that doesn’t exist.”
“Life, Mrs Barker, usually is,” said Jack Merryweather, placating her.
‘More by far than you can ever know,’ thought Harry, smiling politely at the old battle-axe while he touched her outstretched gloved hand, his mind again hearing his father’s voice.
‘Before you marry, my son, always look at their mothers first; in the end, they all turn out like their mothers. It’s the way nature’s made.’ But when he touched Sallie’s ungloved hand he had to pull back quickly, there was so much static electricity.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I have just removed my gloves.”
There was something wrong that Harry was unable to put his finger on. The electricity had repelled him from the girl at first touch.
Then they were all swept along into the lounge, and to what later on became three good rubbers of bridge.
The mother, thought Harry when he had taken himself off to his cabin, was a right pain in the arse, but giving credit where credit was due, he admitted to himself she was a damn good bridge player. Harry, not being very good at cards, had lost one pound seven shillings and thruppence. To make it worse, Harry had had to slip Robert’s losses to him under the table. The big winner that night was Mrs Barker.
As Harry went to sleep he sensed a change in the movement of the ship. There was a slight roll, followed by a pitch; the classic corkscrew. He rather suspected the dining room would be a lot less full at breakfast time. Then he fell into a soundless sleep and dreamed all night he was hunting elephant with his father.
Harry woke just before dawn, certain forever that Sebastian Brigandshaw was his father.
The swell had gone. The SS King Emperor steamed on majestically towards the coast of North Africa. Everyone was down to breakfast though people came and went as they wished. Jack Merryweather had eaten at the first opportunity and gone on his way. Lady Worthington-Hall replied to his cheery ‘Good morning’ with barely a nod. And the man who was on his way to administer some obscure African colony had removed his monocle while he ate his scrambled eggs and, to Harry, was probably as blind as a bat as he seemed to see nothing but the contents of his plate. The captain’s place had not been set; Harry was to find out later, the captain only faced his passengers at dinner time, eating whatever else he wanted in his cabin or on the bridge. The girl with the ringlets was nowhere to be seen. Taking up a glass full of freshly squeezed orange juice, Harry began his breakfast.
Halfway through the meal, the colonial administrator-to-be put the monocle back in his right eye.
“Yesterday’s Times, I’m afraid,” he said, as Harry looked at the paper thrust at him across the table.
When Harry looked up the man was smiling.
“Found out who your father was, young man. After Selous and Hartley, the greatest white hunter of them all. Pity he never wrote a book like Selous.”
“You forget Tinus Oosthuizen.”
“He was a traitor. A British citizen who fought for the Boers. He was shot for treason.”
“With the greatest respect, sir, General Oosthuizen was a Boer. He was my father’s partner and my uncle in every way but blood. My father said to anyone who would listen that Tinus Oosthuizen was the greatest white hunter of them all. He never shot an elephant without measuring the weight of its tusks with his eyes. And he only killed bulls, mostly bulls thrown out of the herd by a younger bull. Uncle Tinus said his heart bled for the old bulls getting thinner and thinner with age, so old they were unable to lift their great tusks to forage for the leaves on the trees. Every one of the tusks he trekked to Cape Town to keep himself alive and have enough money to buy the farm in the Cape, which we then confiscated. And he was hanged, not even shot, sir. My father said he was a true gentleman. The British, sir, were wrong to hang a prisoner of war just because he came from the British Cape, and not the Boer Transvaal, or the Boer Orange Free State. He was a Boer. His family were Boers for generations.”
“It does you credit to stand up for your uncle.”
Harry made himself calm down. He knew it was imperative for an Englishman to behave himself in society.
“Thank you for the paper, sir.” His hand was shaking.
“I was sorry to hear about the death of your father.” The man pushed the food around his plate for a moment before going on. “I rather think it was Oliver Cromwell who said ‘it was only treason if you lose’. This is my first posting to Africa. I also have a lot to learn. In the years to come when I deal with the Boers, as I am sure I will, your testimony to your uncle will remain fresh in my mind.” There was a gentle smile in the older man’s eyes.
“We will talk again on this voyage,” he said.
“Where are you going, sir?”
“To Bechuanaland.”
“Then we shall be neighbours. The railway line of Cecil Rhodes goes through Bechuanaland to reach Rhodesia.”
“That much I do know.”
“Of course, I’m sorry to be rude.”
“Now. If you will all excuse me, I shall take my constitutional. Ten times around the deck. Too much good food and not enough exercise are bad companions.”
Harry, looking at the back of the man he had been inclined to despise so short a while ago, was surprised to find how wrong the outward appearance of the man had been. The steward poured him a second cup of coffee. Then he caught the look of disapproval from Lady Worthington-Hall as his elbow searched for a rest on the table.
After a good breakfast, Harry went outside and walked around the first-class deck to where he looked over the rail onto the deserted second-class swimming pool. Then he saw Albert Pringle down below and waved. He would have walked down the steep stairs to have a chat were the gate in the railing unlocked. Having tried the gate he shrugged and waved again at Pringle. Then a group of people joined Pringle and headed under the deck at his feet to what he knew would be a bar. They were all young. When he heard them clink their glasses together and laugh he walked away. For no reason whatsoever he felt a shiver run down his spine.
Robert St Clair had still not come out of their cabin so he went down to find out what his friend was doing. When he opened their cabin door the first thing he smelt was fried bacon and coffee. Sitting up in bed, with the specially made tray that clipped on the side, Robert smiled with a mouthful of breakfast.
“You want a piece of toast, old chap?”
“I rather thought you would find a way not to miss your breakfast.”
“I know, jolly good. This is just the jolly old way to live. At least have a cup of coffee. I had the steward bring two cups. You want to open the porthole and breathe the fresh air? Very important to have fresh air. You can pour your own coffee if you wish.”
“Thank you, Robert.”
“Absolutely my pleasure. Now, what are we going to do today?”
“Lunch is in two and a half hours,”
said Harry, tongue in cheek.
“This whole thing gets better and better,” said Robert, ignoring the barb.
“One day you are going to be fat!”
“Probably. There’s a price to pay for everything. The trick is to enjoy as much as you can when you can. They can’t take away your memories.” Robert buttered another piece of toast and slid it under a fried egg. Then he spread the yolk, a rich yellow to mingle with the butter.
“The steward says we have a perfect weather forecast all the way to the Cape,” said Robert.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Robert.”
“That’s what my mother says.”
“I know.”
Harry found Sallie Barker and Jack Merryweather in adjacent deck chairs. An empty deck chair stood next to Sallie that he thought most likely had seated Mrs Barker. Robert, having eaten everything on his tray, had said he was going to take a nap after such a good meal. Harry thought the fact the man was as thin as a rake went against all the rules of nature.
Harry smiled briefly at both of them and carried on down the deck, his soft tennis shoes squeaking on the wood. He had made it look as if he too was taking a constitutional. Jack, he had found out, was rich; and Harry suspected Mrs Barker had rigged their whole journey to have Jack Merryweather a captive audience for her daughter. Short of being rude or jumping off the rail, there was nothing Jack could do. There was one thing for certain: no lady would marry a prospector or a bush farmer. Ladies required company. Ladies required the trappings of civilisation. No, Jack would be the better bet when Mrs Barker found out Robert was penniless. As she would.
He was watching the bow cut into the green sea and thinking of home. He was glad to be going home to his family, even a family without his father. Oxford had been a way of learning a job and seeing the world of people.
“Ah, there you are, Mr Brigandshaw. What a lovely day.”
The woman was everywhere, thought Harry. “Yes, it is Mrs Barker,” he replied. He too was a captive.
“So sad to lose a father when you are so young. After you have completed your holiday I presume you will be coming back to London to run your shipping line?”
“Which shipping line, Mrs Barker?”
“Why, this one of course. You are the eldest son of the eldest son of the founder.”
“You are mistaken, Mrs Barker.”
“I am never mistaken, Mr Brigandshaw.”
“My father who died just recently was the youngest son.”
“But your father was Arthur Brigandshaw.”
“My father was Sebastian Brigandshaw.”
“Not according to your birth certificate lodged at Somerset House.”
“You will excuse me, Mrs Barker.”
“Of course. It really is a lovely day.”
Finding the first steward, Harry asked the way to the ship’s wireless room and told the man to please show him the way.
The room was small with one seaman on duty.
“Can you send messages to England?” asked Harry.
“We are the first ship of the line to have Mr Marconi’s invention.”
“And you can receive messages?”
“Yes, we can.”
“Did a Mrs Barker send and receive messages?”
“I cannot say.”
“According to Mrs Barker, I am the owner of this ship.”
“You are Mr Brigandshaw! Well of course.”
From surliness to subservience in one second, thought Harry. Well, that was the system whether he liked it or not.
“Did you show the captain her received messages?”
“Not yet.”
“Then burn them. That’s an order. What is your name?”
“Jenkins.”
“You will never repeat the content of Mrs Barker’s messages. That’s an order. You will never sail on any ship again if you repeat her messages.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, who else was she enquiring about?”
“The Honourable Robert St Clair. So far there is no reply.”
“The old bag’s trying to find her daughter a husband.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Poor old Jack Merryweather,” he went on to himself. “Thank you, Jenkins. We may meet again.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“To where are your cables despatched?”
“Our London head office.”
Why couldn’t the old bag mind her own business, he thought, and why didn’t my parents tell me the truth? If Mrs Barker could find out so easily, everyone in the family knew his father to be his uncle.
Walking back on deck he made sure Mrs Barker was nowhere to be seen. He found a quiet place between a lifeboat hung from its davits and the sea. Alone, he leaned on the rail and stared at the rushing sea, though the sea did not move, only the illusion caused by the swift passage of the ship. For a moment the idea of being very rich sent a rush of excitement to his brain, followed by the consequence of being responsible for a vast shipping line. Sobered, he felt the grip of fear churn his stomach. The African bush came running into his mind, the great highveld of Central Africa, teaming with its multitude of oh so many different species of game. He saw his house, his dogs, his horse, his family that somehow was not quite his family anymore. He heard the cry of a fish eagle and tears began to flow down his face. He felt alone in a new and horrible world of Mrs Barkers selling their daughters, with no regard for happiness, to the richest man. He saw a stuffy shipping office in London and going to work year after year in the winter dark. Never seeing the winter day, except through a grimy fog-touched window, the river ships mournfully sounding their horns in warning. He saw his freedom consumed by his wealth, gone for his natural life. In desperation, he stared and stared at the sea rushing by the ship’s hull and numbed his mind… ‘But of course,’ he shouted in his mind. ‘Uncle Arthur died young and my father married his widow.’ Then the excitement receded. Even under that scenario, he was no longer his father’s son. Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw his father and heard his words. ‘Don’t you worry about that one, Harry. That’s one thing you will never have to worry about.’
As the sun would break through the clouds after the main rains in Rhodesia, the truth came to Harry. His mother and father had known each other for most of their lives, that had been confirmed. The trick was to look at the dates. Three dates. The day his father left for Africa, the day he was born. The day his mother married Uncle Arthur as it now seemed she did. With the desperation brought by hope, Harry was never so glad to be a bastard. He missed his father far too much for him not to be real. Now they would all have to talk when he reached Elephant Walk. His mother, his Grandfather Manderville, his Aunt Alison who had at one time been his nurse.
By his small fob watch, an hour had passed. Feeling light of head and light of spirit, he turned his back on the sea, ducked under the forward davit and headed for the open bar that backdropped the first-class swimming pool. He was going home, free as air.
Harry tossed the first whisky down his throat and ordered another. He was the only person at the bar other than the barman. The bar had just opened. No one was in the pool as it was too cold. Old people in shawls and scarves sat in lounge chairs, staring at the pool, the water moving in the pool with the slight roll of the ship. Harry tossed back the second whisky and ordered a beer. The alcohol had gone straight to his head. Then his fuddled head asked another question as the barman poured the lager into a tall, thin glass. His mother and father had loved each other for all the years of his life. They were all happy together. And if they were all happy together, why had his mother married his uncle in the first place? The fog in his mind choked on what he had found out as the truth. Harry sipped at the beer and sadly wondered where he was going with his life.
“Ah, there you are. Such a nice nap… Isn’t it rather early to be drinking, Harry? Before lunch! Well, I suppose I had better join you. I’ll have a whisky to start with.”
“Robe
rt, I should be very unhappy if you didn’t.”
“Could you run to two, old chap?” The irony had gone straight over Robert’s head.
“Absolutely. And then a beer.”
“Am I that predictable? Dear oh dear. If I were rich I would stay on a boat like this for the rest of my life. Going round and round the world. Isn’t it a beautiful day? Cheers, old chap. Down the hatch… Oh, there’s that nice Mrs Barker who plays such good bridge. Mrs Barker! Please come and join us. You do remember my friend Harry Brigandshaw from last night? He was my bridge partner. Terrible player, but a jolly good chap… What are you going to drink? Why don’t we all share a bottle of champagne? There’s an hour before lunch… Oh just look! I don’t believe it. There’s that lovely daughter of yours, Mrs Barker. Come! Over here, Sallie. If you don’t mind me calling your daughter Sallie, Mrs Barker… Be a good chap, Harry, and order us a bottle of their best champagne.”
‘I wonder if he thinks the girl’s rich?’ thought Harry as he ordered the champagne while hoping the maize crop had not failed again this year. It had been one thing to be given a free passage on the family shipping line and another to drink champagne free. And putting Robert in his cabin, which he would not have shared had he travelled alone, was not breaking the family rules. But what Uncle James had made quite clear was that, like in an officer’s mess, members of the family travelling free were expected to pay for their own drinks. Colonel Sir James Brigandshaw Bart, had made that quite clear twice… Then Harry’s mind went on a ramble again. If the birth certificate at Somerset House was right, then he, Harry, should have become the new baronet when Harry’s grandfather had died. The family couldn’t have it both ways. No wonder they were so free with the cabin. They wanted him back in the colonies as soon as possible. Maybe no one had told the college of heralds to check for the birth certificate of a certain Harold Brigandshaw. Maybe Uncle Arthur had disclaimed him. But that was contradicted by the birth certificate at Somerset House. He was thinking in circles.
