The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set

by Peter Rimmer

  “Where’d you get ’em?” asked Dawie, his eyes popping.

  “On the beach.”

  “What beach?”

  “No, no, no, no. That’s the bit I’m going to keep to myself.” If he had been sober he would have left the stones in the pouch tied around his waist. “Like our wise old drinking companion here who will not even tell me who he is… What are they, friends?” One of the stones was knocked to the floor and picked up by Barend with difficulty. Peregrine had picked up the largest of the stones. He was quite sure they were diamonds but his old mind was pleasantly thinking in circles.

  “Well, I’m not sure,” he lied, “they look like diamonds but who knows? Only an expert will tell you for certain. I believe at Elephant Walk there is a young man with a degree in geology from Oxford. Likelihood is, he would know for certain.”

  “What’s this Elephant Walk?” asked Dawie more interested in the stones, his mind-boggling at the possible wealth in front of him.

  “You were going to Kimberley to find out. Now I know why you are asking me to go to Kimberley. Instead, I’ll make you a bargain, I’m sure Clary and Jeff can walk back to Rhodesia if we take it slowly.”

  “You think Harry will know for certain?”

  “They don’t give degrees at Oxford for nothing, I think. I rather hope you have to know something… Did you really find them on a beach?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you never found the source of the diamonds, if indeed they are diamonds. Harry’s knowledge might make you rather rich… There was a rumour a few years back. 1908, I think. A railway worker found diamonds south of Lüderitz near the Orange River, the Germans proclaimed the area around Kolmanskop a no-go area. You were not in the wrong place at the right time, young Barend Oosthuizen?” He gave the lad a wink.

  “It was much further north,” blurted Barend.

  “That’s good. Now put them back in your belt. There’s probably nothing in all this. Personally, I don’t think they are diamonds. But just in case they are, you can carry on buying me drinks.”

  In Peregrine’s life, he had found it wise never to be too careful.

  5

  November 1913

  Sir Henry Manderville had sown the tiny oblong black seeds in shallow wooden boxes where they rested on waist-high wooden benches; the sun reached them through the window in the morning. After three weeks, the specially prepared soil from the Mazoe River silt, black as the seedlings, sprouted tiny feathers of green all over the place, sending Henry into raptures of excitement. There was nothing more exciting in his life than a quest. The idea of seeds collected in America and sent around the world to grow in his seed boxes without the slightest fuss or surprise, gave him pleasure out of all proportion to the achievement. The shed he had built for the experiment was always locked. Henry kept the only key. Everyone on Elephant Walk was aware of the new shed at the back of the house but no one said a word. It was not his first experiment, and not all of them had worked out as well as the pull-and-let-go, and the system of pipes and pulleys, chains and cogs that drew the water from the river to the header tank outside his bathroom with a series of windmills that gave the cistern water to flush Mister Crapper’s toilet. For all he knew, the seeds could have been sterile or his cousin in Virginia had sent him some obnoxious local grass seed to keep the supply of Virginia tobacco in America.

  After two weeks of the seedlings bolting out of the ground, there was no doubt. They were plants, not grass, not weeds. They were all exactly the same.

  “You’d better come and see what I’ve been up to,” he said to Harry Brigandshaw, his grandson. The rains had yet to break properly, but the lands planted to corn were sprouting maize spikes in straight lines, row after row, land after land, the red soil rich from the meandering river that had cut out their valley. How the rich red soil had come from black silt was a mystery to Henry. He left that part to the gods to worry about.

  He let himself into the shed with the big, long key and stood back.

  “What is it?” asked Harry.

  “Tobacco. Not only tobacco, American tobacco from Virginia. Cousin George. He is farming now… I want to plant some of the seedlings in the lands.”

  “And what do you do with it when it’s grown?”

  “You put it in tall barns and light a fire to dry up the moisture in the leaves. I questioned that and Cousin George sent me all the plans. Takes a fortnight… You’re right. The curing, as they call it, is the tricky part. We probably won’t get it right the first time.”

  “Who’s going to buy it?”

  “The British cigarette manufacturers.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not yet. I have to grow the damn stuff first. Humour me, Harry. Humour me. I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”

  “But you are my grandfather.” Harry was convinced long ago his grandfather was potty.

  “That’s the point. Now, can I have an acre of ploughed land to plant in?”

  “You can have as many as you like. Tobacco. Who would have thought of it? There’s tea in British India and Ceylon. Rubber in Malaya. Nowhere in the empire are we commercially growing tobacco. But you’d better stop these damn dogs getting into your boxes. Down, my dog. Down. Fletcher, you are a right royal pain in the arse. How many boys do you need?”

  “Six.”

  “You can have them tomorrow morning… The rains are going to be good this year. Come on Fletcher… That damn dog’s got too much energy.”

  Harry walked out of the shed followed by Fletcher, the dog, and the three bitches. They were Rhodesian ridgebacks. Lion dogs. They were seven years old and had not left any of their curiosity with their puppyhood. Madge was feeding the wild geese, Egyptian geese, with handfuls of yellow corn. The geese were too busy gobbling up the corn kernels to worry about the dogs. The dogs looked at them hopefully and wandered off. One of the cats got through a window into Sir Henry’s house straight away. The other cats lived high off the ground, only coming down to earth at feeding time. The dogs never chased them when there was food in their bowls.

  “What was it?” asked Madge.

  “Tobacco seedlings. Cousin George, the Canadian lumberjack, is now an American farmer in Virginia. Where the seed came from. Funny thing is, it might work. A lightweight high-value crop we can send to England at a profit. I saw a picture once. On a pouch of pipe tobacco. They compress the dried leaves into square bales and cover them with hessian… He’s as happy as a sandboy.”

  “I heard that,” came from his grandfather in the shed.

  The dogs had begun chasing each other in and around the flowerbeds, in and around the msasa trees within the stockade that protected the houses.

  Robert St Clair was sitting in a deck chair under one of the trees. His sister Lucinda was sitting next to him watching the dogs.

  The St Clairs had been on the farm seven months and Harry wondered if they had cashed in the return half of their tickets back to England. But maybe it was his own fault. For months he rather hoped he would fall in love with Lucinda. His mother hoped so too. Robert hoped so. Probably his grandfather as well. But as hard as he tried, Harry could not find anything other than friendship for Lucinda, which Madge told him was a perfect shame. And at least Robert had stopped following Madge around… There was also no doubt the brother and sister were good company. And Elephant Walk was far from the nearest crowd. The farm was self-supporting in food. And who was Harry to deny an old friend a few drinks at sundowner time? It was the highlight of everyone’s day.

  There were times in Robert St Clair’s life when he wished he were rich. The thought of going back to an English winter, jobless and poor, to the cold of Purbeck Manor, was horrible. After sitting in the shade of the sun for month after month, the idea of a log fire burning the front of his body while his back froze from the draught coming through under the door was appalling. If he had money he would buy himself an African farm. There was plenty of labour. There was plenty of sun, and the rain came when it
was needed to grow a crop, leaving the winter six months crisp at night, warm in the day and not a drop of rain to be seen. Provided the river kept flowing, which it did, Rhodesia to Robert was paradise. There was no way he could ever again face being cooped up in the family mansion or an old English school with even gas heating. And he hated small boys asking stupid questions.

  The idea of marrying Madge was not the answer as the Brigandshaw farm belonged to Harry Brigandshaw. There would always be a good home for mother, grandfather and sister but the farm would always belong to the son. Not that he had got anywhere trying to compete with a ghost whose only fault was not being where he was meant to be. He rather thought she despised him sponging off his friend but was too polite to come right out and say so. Harry seemed friendly enough. Living alone in a house with his sister was perfect. They could keep out of other people’s way. Once he had overheard Madge suggest he had pawned his return ticket that was valid on any Colonial Shipping liner out of Cape Town. But that was one thing he never did. He never burnt his boats. He always had an escape route even if the destination was no longer to his liking.

  Everyone thought he did not have a care in the world, which is how he tried to portray himself, but under the smooth façade, he was scared. He was twenty-eight years old, with no idea what he was going to do with the rest of his life. The idea of war with Germany was his only glimmer of hope. If war broke out he would go off like all the other surplus St Clairs before him and die for a good cause. Then it would be over. Even with glory, though how getting killed was glorious, he rather thought was owed to politicians who required willing cannon fodder to take politics into their next dimension of war. He would not have to grow old. He would not have to be a burden on other people. He would be dead. And in Robert’s mind, dead was dead.

  Discreetly he looked at his watch. Always the last half hour before six was the longest half hour of the day. He had only been pretending to read a book. He wondered what his sister was thinking as she watched the dogs. If Harry did not propose soon it would be too late. She was twenty-two in April. Girls had such a short time to secure the long years of their lives. And if they failed to find a husband there wasn’t much left for them to do. He felt sorry for her. He rather thought the life of a penniless spinster was worse than a penniless bachelor. At least he could go to war. Anyway, he told himself, he had done his best. You could only bait the hook. The fish had to come up and swallow the worm.

  “Feel like a drink, old chap?” he heard Harry calling.

  “Splendid idea.”

  He jumped up, the unread book falling on the grass. It was six o’clock at last.

  “Drinking time, sis. Are you coming?”

  “Why not?” And almost under her breath so only her Robert would hear, “There’s nothing else to do.”

  Now a little irritated, Robert walked across to Harry’s veranda where the servants were slotting the fly screens into place. An animal some way over in the bush made a horrible noise, which he ignored. His sister shuddered.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” said Robert.

  “A lion,” said Madge. “There he goes again.”

  This time, Robert shuddered. He did not like the idea of lions out on the loose. He really needed his drink.

  Emily looked at her two children and her father on the veranda and rather thought they all drank too much in Africa. Since her husband had died she really did not care. Everyone was able to look after themselves. She was forty-two years old and withering up. Her time of usefulness had gone. The thought of marrying again had never entered her head. There had never been any other man for Emily Manderville ever since she was a child. She had decided to marry Sebastian Brigandshaw when she was ten years old. The fact she fell pregnant with Harry before she was married had everything to do with their love of each other. And if the Pirate, Captain Brigandshaw, Sebastian’s father, had not banished Sebastian to the colonies! And if her father, who was up to something in his new potting shed, had not made a pact with the devil! If she had not been forced to marry the heir to the Brigandshaw fortune so Arthur’s father, the Pirate, could lay his hands on the ancient estate of Hastings Court and mix his blood with old family! If! Too many ifs. Too many people wanting what they wanted with little thought for others. She and her father had never yet had it out but now it did not matter. They had talked. He had said he was sorry. But they had never had it out. Arranged marriages were common in her father’s day. She looked at her older son and thought one day she should tell him the truth. They had made her marry Arthur. They had paid and received what was tantamount to blood money. But they had never been able to force her into Arthur’s bed. And as Arthur had only wanted money from his father and his cheap whores, that part worked out well. She lived as mistress of Hastings Court but she never consummated the marriage. And then Seb had got back, somehow, from Africa. Put a ladder up to her bedroom window, and with the help of Alison Ford, Harry’s nurse and Barend’s mother, they had all run away to Africa and left their old lives behind to live only in memory.

  Emily poured herself a stiff gin. Even George, her youngest son, was away at boarding school. No one needed her now. And she missed Seb so much it physically hurt every time she thought of him. Which was far too often for her sanity. Maybe she thought the truth got muddled up too much as it went along. So long as Harry knew Seb was his father, the rest might best be left alone. There are some truths in life we are best not knowing, she tried to tell herself, as she procrastinated yet again from telling Harry the truth. She was only a woman. People told her she was tough living on a bush farm without a husband. But she wasn’t.

  One of the other dogs clanged through the screen door that automatically crashed closed behind it. The big dogs flopped on the big reed mat that covered most of the veranda floor. Madge was lighting the paraffin lamps. She half listened to her father going on about growing tobacco. Her drink was empty sooner than she thought it should have been. Then she got up to stand at the sideboard and poured herself another drink. Through the window into the dining room, she could see the houseboy laying out the cold fork supper on the dining table. Not for the first time she asked herself what she would do without her routine. On Elephant Walk, nothing changed. And nothing would. Even if they all went to war with each other in England, nothing would change in the African bush. They were too far away. Cut off from everything.

  The second gin and quinine tonic tasted better than the first. Without anyone really noticing she sat down again where she had been. Harry gave her a smile, which was comforting. She had children. Yes, she had her children.

  Her father gave her that funny look again, and she wondered if he had been reading her mind.

  Henry Manderville could read his daughter’s mind with the greatest of ease. He had watched her thinking as he talked about the future of flue-cured tobacco in Africa.

  He had sold the only two items left in the Manderville fortune. Over the generations, the money had shrunk to the old house and a few acres, the title and his daughter, the daughter who would have been penniless had he died like her mother at an early age. To the right buyer, the history of Hastings Court was worth more than the house itself. To the right father, a daughter-in-law with an ancient pedigree was worth more than the money with which it could be bought. He had known his daughter loved the youngest of the Brigandshaw boys but he had not known then how much. Puppy love. Kids thrown together by the loneliness of childhood. All had rationalised in his brain. Love came and went, he had told himself. Life can be lived without consuming love. Consuming love rarely lasted, except in the memory. Money! It was always money that stayed forever. Money could be passed from one generation to another and another. Mostly love died in life. It always died once both of the lovers were dead.

  Why a man with money was so concerned with so-called pedigree, breeding, Henry found difficult to understand. ‘What’s the difference?’ he asked himself. ‘What is so important?’ Most ol
d families started with rape and pillage. Thugs stealing what they wanted. Forcing their will. Yet he knew the likes of Captain Brigandshaw were obsessed with titles. Obsessed with buying their way from humble roots. They wanted respect. A daughter-in-law from an old family would, to that man’s way of thinking, give his grandchildren respect. And if by political pandering the man could buy himself a hereditary title, which Captain Brigandshaw from the profits of Colonial Shipping had finally done, in three generations his family would go from ordinary seaman to titled gentry. And if their mother’s family was hundreds of years old in the collective memory, no one would question their worth. The fact that everyone’s family was hundreds of years old, or otherwise they themselves would not be alive, made the whole thing to Henry’s mind a lot of nonsense. But there it was. He had the old house, an old title and a marriageable daughter. Brigandshaw had the money. He made a pact with the devil to protect his own descendants, though he never saw the irony of the situation until many years later. He had done his best. And he had not known his daughter was already pregnant by the young scallywag she had been, he thought, innocently playing with since she was a child.

  Like his daughter, who he knew had not told Harry she was only married to his father years after the children were born, he thought it better to keep his reasons to himself, to not bring out the story that now had a very different view. In hindsight, he rather thought, most things were easier to understand. If he had sold Hastings Court on the open market, the proceeds would not have covered the mortgage. He had done his best. Well, maybe he had been thinking of himself just a little. In the end, he smiled to himself, we all just think of ourselves a little. It’s the nature of man. Then he caught his daughter’s eye and looked away. There was only so much rationalisation but even that could never assuage a man’s guilt.

  Quietly, he got up and went to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. The roar of the lion, he thought, was a little nearer.