The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set

by Peter Rimmer

  The grandson, Harry, was born at Hastings Court. Sebastian, getting wind of the timing of the birth, later came back from Africa, ran a ladder up to the nursery window at Hastings Court and kidnapped his son, Arthur’s wife Emily and, for good measure Alison Ford, the boy’s nurse. Arthur was delighted. All his troubles had gone out of the window at the same time. Leaving the countryside and Hastings Court to the birds, he went back to his life of debauchery in London.

  Not so contrite, the Pirate threw a fit and had his youngest son pursued for kidnapping. If caught, Sebastian would have been hanged. Deep in the African bush, they had finally been left alone, husband and wife in everything but name, until Arthur died of drink and obesity at the turn of the century. If Harry had not been declared a bastard after his mother’s marriage had been annulled for lack of consummation, he would have inherited Colonial Shipping. That is if he knew, which he didn’t. Even that part of Emily’s responsibility had passed her by.

  After Sebastian had been killed by the Great Elephant, nothing had seemed to have a point for Emily. What did it all matter? Their love was dead, ended by an elephant. Nothing, she said to herself, mattered anymore. And now Madge had gone off with Barend Oosthuizen to the other side of Elephant Walk to start another section. Even the one-time nurse of Harry, Alison, Barend’s mother, had gone with them. George, her youngest son had come back from school in Cape Town and then gone to England, so he said, to go to Oxford like his brother Harry before him. It had been six months and no one had heard a word.

  The sound of strange horses coming into the compound made Emily’s stomach sink. George was dead. They were coming to tell her. And she wanted to scream. Why did nothing good ever come to her in life?

  Emily stood in the dining room behind the window that looked onto her veranda. There were three riders. One was a young girl. Praise be to God, she said out loud to herself. It’s not George. Then she saw her father come out of the third house in the compound and walk across the tree-dotted lawn towards the strangers. Emily let the lace curtain fall back into place and walked through the dining room into the kitchen. Her black cook was working at the sink.

  “Better get Tembo to kill a chicken. Three more for dinner. Ask the gardener to dig up some more potatoes. And cut some vegetables.”

  She knew how to run the house. That was routine… She watched the cook boy dry his hands on his apron and go off to look for Tembo. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Harry would be back from the lands when the sun went down. Even now Emily thought she could do with a drink. Three hours to sundowner time. She could wait. That was the one big rule on Elephant Walk. No drinking before the sun went down. Not even on Sundays. Not even at Christmas.

  With the cook out of the kitchen, she made sure the kettle on the hob was full of hot water. Just before he made the tea, the cook boy would stoke the fire and bring the water to the boil.

  In winter she didn’t mind eating hot food for supper. Once the sun went down the temperature dropped quickly. Someone once had told her the reason was that they were three thousand feet above sea level. By seven o’clock they would need a wood fire burning in the lounge. The family of Egyptian geese, that had once been wild when she first came to Elephant Walk, took off noisily over the balustrade that surrounded the family compound for the river, disturbed by the horses. There were now four separate dwellings, the last a small rondavel with bath and kitchen her father had built for Peregrine the Ninth. His old wagon was still parked in the yard. Clary and Jeff, the wagon donkeys, had been put out to graze down by the river. Surprisingly to Emily, neither lion nor leopard had eaten either of the donkeys. There was something about the kick of a mule. It had to be. Predators kept away from donkeys and mules.

  So relieved the horsemen were not bringing news of her youngest son from England, she opened the inside door to the veranda to go out and greet the guests, to trip over the female ridgeback lying on the reed mat. The dog gave her a look of ‘mind where you’re going’ and closed its eyes. The three dogs were sprawled on the same large mat that covered most of the veranda floor. Only when Emily opened the fly screen door to the garden did the dogs take any notice of the horses on the pathway through the compound. Then they all got up and put their front paws on the low windowsill to see what was happening. Not greatly interested, they went back to the mat and their sleep. From the inside windowsill to the dining room window that opened into the long veranda the ginger cat watched the dogs carefully. When the dogs flopped back on the mat, the cat went back to sleep. There would be time enough to jump into the dining room if the dogs got up and snapped at him. The cat and dog war had been going on all his life. He was used to it. If the dogs had looked at him carefully, they would have seen a thin slit of yellow eyes. The cat never let his eyes quite close on the dogs.

  It was always pleasant for Sir Henry Manderville to have a conversation with strangers. They were more isolated on Elephant Walk than most people on earth. After nearly two years of Peregrine the Ninth living with them in the compound, the two old men had run out of new conversation, and like with a good book, they were going for a second and third good read. The last of the three riders was a lot older than the young couple in front. Even though he was sixty-three and celibate for longer than he could remember, he could still see the girl was as pretty as anything stored in the memory of his mind from the long past of his life. He would have to be dead, he told himself, before he did not appreciate a good-looking woman.

  Only when he walked closer to the horses did he see she was only a girl. The older man spurred his horse and rode forward.

  “It’s a bit of a cheek, I’m afraid,” said the man. “We don’t have a letter of introduction. You see, we went on safari and saw the sign back there, and Albert once met a Harry Brigandshaw on the boat, so we thought you wouldn’t mind the intrusion, so to speak.”

  The man was speaking English in an accent Sir Henry had never heard before in his life. “You don’t have to explain. Sort of Rhodesian tradition. Travellers always welcome. Harry’s in the lands but will be back by sundown. I’m Harry’s grandfather, Henry Manderville. You’ll stay for supper, of course. And there’s always a bed.”

  “It’s roast chicken,” called Emily walking across the lawn to join her father.

  “That’s Emily. My daughter. Harry’s mother.”

  “How do you do, ma’am. Benny Lightfoot. This is Tina Pringle and Albert Pringle.”

  “Welcome to Elephant Walk, Mrs Pringle,” said Henry formally.

  “I’m not married. Bert’s m’ brother.”

  “I’m from America,” said Benny, not sure why the old man’s eyes lit up.

  “Oh good,” said Sir Henry. “My cousin lives in Virginia. He is my heir actually. Funny things happen with titles in England.”

  “He won’t be able to use it in America.”

  “I suppose not. Never thought of that. There’s no money. Just the title. Poor Cousin George… You can leave your horses for Tembo.”

  “He’s killing a chicken,” put in Emily as she reached the men.

  “Chickens die quite quickly. I’m quite sure Tembo will make the cook pluck and gut. Been with us for years. His privilege, you see,” said Henry.

  “Is it Lord Manderville?”

  “Oh heavens, no. Just plain Sir Henry. Goes back a bit. One of my ancestors came over from France with the Conqueror… William the Conqueror,” he added when Benny failed to register what he was saying.

  “Man that built the Tower of London?”

  “So you know. Jolly good. Come and have some tea, old chap. Offer you a drink but it’s too early. You can all have a wash. Did you shoot anything? Where are the porters? Oh well never mind. Tie the steeds to that tree. Em’s house is the place for tea. We all have our own. Harry will be so pleased to meet you.”

  Then Benny understood. The look of interest had not been for the old boy but for his grandson. Everybody seemed to be looking for something. Then he looked at Emily again. She had the mos
t beautiful green eyes with orange flecks that smiled at him. He did not have to be told she was a beautiful woman when she was younger. Pity she didn’t know how to dress. How to do her hair. Quite frankly, he told himself, the woman looked like she had walked through a hedge backwards. Benny thought it was a pity.

  As he got down from his horse, four dogs burst out of the big house and rushed at him across the well-kept lawn between the trees that were ringed with flowerbeds. Standing his ground he looked the dogs in the eyes. Then he got down on his haunches and smiled at the dogs from their own level. The bitch of the pack began to lick his outstretched right hand.

  “A dog can always tell,” said Emily.

  “What, Mrs Brigandshaw?” Benny was still watching the dogs carefully for any sign of aggression.

  “A nice person. When the dogs growl at someone on first meeting, I never trust that person again… Ah. Here come the geese again. You frightened them.”

  “We didn’t know… Dogs, will you please get out of the way,” he said to the four ridgebacks. The dogs looked hopefully at the geese landing on the lawn. Then they began the afternoon chase around the trees and the flowerbeds. The ginger cat watching from its sill inside the veranda closed its eyes and went to sleep.

  As with all visitors to Elephant Walk, they were first taken off to see Henry’s house, that boasted the pull-and-let-go toilet invented by Mister Crapper. Henry explained in detail how he had mastered the water supply with a series of windmills pumping water up the pipe from the Mazoe River; then up into the header tank on its tall wooden stand that provided the water pressure for the house. He promised Benny Lightfoot he would show him the whole system down to the river when everyone had washed and had their tea.

  “I’m a bit of a crackpot but it keeps me amused,” said Henry. “The children encourage me but I think it’s more indulgence. For years I’ve heard them say I’m potty. Why is it children think old people are deaf? I hear perfectly well. Much better than the kids when someone asked them to do a job. Not so much now. When they were younger. You’ll like my grandson, Harry. Well, there it is. I’m boring everyone as usual… Those damn dogs make one hell of a noise. Maybe Miss Pringle can use the bathroom first. Jolly good. Well, I’ll be off for tea. Later we’ll have a snort or two. Oh, if you see a very old man that looks like Methuselah, it’s our Peregrine. Takes a nap around about this time so you should be all right. I’ll show you the tobacco tomorrow. The house with the long veranda. Where the dogs raced out from. Come and have a cup of tea. Toodle-oo… Damn those dogs. They ruin my flowerbeds… Dogs! Shut up!” he yelled leaving Benny Lightfoot smiling at the door to the bathroom shut behind Tina Pringle.

  “What a delightful old chap,” he said to Albert Pringle.

  The old man raised a hand still with his back to them. He had heard as Benny had intended. He had not become a rich man without using subtle praise as a tool for his trade. He had found out early in his life that there wasn’t a single person on earth not susceptible to flattery.

  “I can only stay one night,” said Albert. “Business. Been away too long. Sallie can cope but she always needs help. I’ve taken advantage of her for long enough on this trip. You don’t have to rush.”

  “You may be right. There’s something about this place,” agreed Benny.

  “Can you look after Tina on the way home?” Albert asked.

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  “Thank you,” said Albert without smiling.

  “I know you don’t like me, Albert. Frankly, in your position, I’d be the same.”

  “Tina wanted to come. My sister has a strong will. I had never been in the bush.”

  “I’ll get a message to you when I’m back in Johannesburg. You and I can talk business, start all over again. And you are all right. She’s a darling but far too young.”

  “Who’s a darling? Who’s too young?” asked Tina letting herself out of the bathroom.

  “You, my dear… Your brother wants to go home tomorrow.”

  “But we only just got ’ere. Blimey. What was the point?”

  “You can stay if you want, Tina. It’s Sallie,” said her brother.

  “I can stay! Good. That’s settled. Hurry up in the bloody toilet you two. I want a cup of tea. At least this place serves tea. Now that’s civilised. We must be in the middle of nowhere.”

  The only tobacco on the farm at that time of the year was in the shed, the samples left over from the first crop that had flourished better than Henry Manderville’s best expectations. They had made a mess of the first two cures but when the third came out of the barn they had pumped steam onto the dried-out leaves which they had hung from poles tied in clumps of six. Instead of the dry leaves breaking up, the leaves were soft, pliable, and slightly oily. Henry had even thought they smelt like tobacco, so he made up a small parcel and sent it to Imperial Tobacco in England, marked on front and back ‘Product of Rhodesia’. Not a word was heard for weeks. The great piles of leaves stacked in bunches of six one on top of the other stood on a tarpaulin on the dirt floor of the shed staring at him. For the first time in his life, he was depressed. Everything had come out according to Cousin George’s instructions, except that the crop was five times bigger for the acreage than expected.

  For Henry, it had been a case of the chicken and the egg. Which came first? He had to grow the tobacco and send it to the cigarette company. To write and say he was growing a crop would not have found any interest. Months went by. War was declared in Europe. The tobacco stood looking at them when anyone was brave enough to go into the shed. Harry even grew worried about his grandfather. The idea had been so good, and with tobacco selling at sixpence a pound in America, even Emily’s maths showed they were onto a good thing. By her calculations, they would receive nine times more money for tobacco than maize. And unlike the cattle, that suffered deadly tick-borne diseases and the regular attention of the lions, tobacco seemed to grow straight and pure without a blemish. For a country locked away in south-central Africa, the value to weight ratio made tobacco the perfect crop. A few wagonloads of dried out, cured tobacco was worth a fortune.

  The war changed everything, though they did not know it on Elephant Walk at the time. For a man in uniform, much of his time is spent sitting around waiting for something to happen. He is bored and scared at the same time, long before he hears a gun go off in anger. In civilian life, bored men full of tension took to drink but drink was not allowed in the army on duty. The only sedative to calm jangled nerves was tobacco, tobacco that could be stuffed back in a pocket at a moment’s notice. Cigarettes in small packets. With tens of thousands of men joining the colours, the demand for cigarettes multiplied sevenfold. Not only did the price of American tobacco rise sharply, but there was also a risk factor. It had to be shipped to England across the Atlantic, where German underwater boats were waiting for the merchant ships in packs. Men were soon dying bringing tobacco to England. It was far safer to sail a boat from Cape Town, South Africa, to Southampton than from Norfolk, Virginia to Liverpool. And the British could pay for tobacco in pounds sterling and not American dollars.

  The parcel sent to Imperial Tobacco in London caused a stir considerably bigger than the size of Henry’s parcel blaring at them ‘Product of Rhodesia’. Admittedly it had taken the chief chemist five minutes to find Rhodesia on the map and another week to test the tobacco and nicotine content and tar. They would need to blend the new African tobacco. There was a difference in taste. But there was a war going on. Men in the trenches wanted cheap cigarettes. Under the bad conditions, the men would soon grow used to the new taste. They would even like it. The stuff was genuine tobacco grown in another place. With the mud and the noise, the chief chemist doubted anyone would notice the difference in the first place.

  In a letter that had gone with the parcel, Sir Henry had explained in full detail the extent of his experiment, asking the company to send him more good seed. He also wanted to know how many acres to plant.

  With a la
rge wooden box full of fine black tobacco seeds the company had brought back from America for research at Kew Gardens, a man was sent to Africa to make sure no one was playing a practical joke on Imperial Tobacco. If the product was genuine, it would be worth millions of pounds to the largest cigarette maker in the world. It would also save the lives of seamen. Or free up space on the ships to bring to England more lethal loads from the factories of America. Even the Americans would not mind. The demand for their tobacco was far in excess of the supply.

  Harry Brigandshaw had been out in the lands all day supervising the clearance of the trees. The man from Imperial Tobacco had given them an advance of one thousand pounds to build another twenty curing barns that were to be half the height of a church steeple. By the time they were given the money on Elephant Walk, it was too late in the season to stump out the new lands and build the tobacco barns. A grading and storage shed had to be built. Before any of the buildings could go up, bricks had to be made on the farm from the gestated soil they would dig from the great anthills that dotted the farm. Water pipes had to come up from the river. Metal flues had to be manufactured in Rhodesia’s capital, Salisbury. Special fire clay had to be imported from England to make the long ovens that would protrude into the barns at ground level to heat the air inside, and drive the moisture out of the leaves hanging in tiers one above the other, the hot air rising and drying all the way to the top. Even if all the maize lands had been used for tobacco, the curing barns and sheds would not have been ready for a crop grown in the 1915 rainy season.